Let's Play Fill in the Blanks
by Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit
Summary: Just because you dress like a Nazi, speak like a Nazi, feel like a Nazi and hang out with Nazis, doesn't mean you must be one. You might just be a missing, amnesiac POW in disguise.
1. Hi! Do I Know Me?

**Chapter One:**

**Hi! Do I Know Me? **

He had been staggering down the road for some time. His pain-fogged mind told him it had been dark when he first woke up but he could no longer remember where and when that had been.

There was a fence along the side of the dirt road, and he kept his fingers anchored on the rough wood. It was the only thing he could grip in this whirling and dipping reality.

"Hello... Hey there. Are you alright? "

The voice was light and feminine and he dragged his gaze up from the road to see a blur in the shape of a face, and glowing bits of yellow gauze whirling around it.

"You don't look so good. What happened? Where did you come from?"

It was too distracting. The words and face at the same time. He couldn't figure out which one he was supposed to be concentrating on. Then suddenly there was pressure on his arm and a new feeling of rippling pain in his sore muscles.

"Hey now. Don't pass out like that. Why don't we sit you down here. Just lean back, let the fence support you." The voice dropped a little in volume. "Where's my water? Don't die. Please don't die on me."

Then there was cold liquid running down his face, and some of it was in his throat, and he coughed and swallowed and blinked.

"I-" his voice sounded horribly gruff. "Water?"

"That was good, right? Here you go. Try and hold the tin."

The water did feel awfully good and the solid metal in his two hands was reassuring. Smiling, the young woman knelt in front of him and pointed at the tin of water. "I'm going to leave that with you, alright? Just for a minute. You stay here, and I'm going to get you some more help."

Getting to her feet, she turned to look at him once more. "I won't be long. Just stay right there."

As if he had any other choice.

He blinked again and examined the tin of water. He was feeling dreadfully off. He couldn't even remember how the thing got in his hands. Did she pass it to him? Where did she get it from, and who, for that matter, was she?

Fumbling slightly, he put the tin down on the ground and looked around. Somehow he had gotten on the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, with his back to the fence. On the other side of the road there was just grass, fields, and a few trees here and there.

It all seemed wrong.

This wasn't where he was supposed to be. He was used to something different.

For a moment he thought of a place that was less open, somewhere with more walls or buildings maybe. But then his head throbbed, and he raised a hand to fumble at the sore spot.

With shaking fingers he explored the thick scruffy hair on his head, finding multiple spots of mud, bruising, and dried blood. There was one messy spot just behind his right temple that pulsed wet blood at his touch. A woozy feeling in his stomach warned him away from bothering it again.

With a sigh, he scrubbed at his face, wondering what colour his hair was, and when things were going to start making sense.

"There he is. I just found him stumbling along the road, and I don't know how long he must have been walking. Where do you think he came from?"

He rolled his head to the side to see a young woman - The Young Woman? – hurrying towards him with an older man at her side. Now he could see that she was blond, with a pretty round mouth and lots of checkers on her pale blue dress.

"Looks like an officer from one of the Hammelburg patrols. You were right though; he doesn't look to be in very good shape." The older man stopped in front of him and crouched down, speaking slowly. "Hey there, boy. How are you feeling?"

He coughed a little and was surprised at how deep and raspy his voice was. "Not that great. Where am I?"

"The closest town is Hammelburg, son. But that's a good three hour's walk from here. What are you doing in the area?"

Three hours? The name Hammelburg didn't ring any bells in his throbbing head. Dare he ask what country Hammelburg was in?

"I'm not sure what I'm doing here."

The older man's bushy grey eyebrows pressed together. "Well, what patrol are you in? Or who is you're commanding officer."

"Patrol?" He could feel his breathe speeding up. "I don't remember anything about that. Am I in the army?"

The young girl placed a hand on her companion's shoulder, and they exchanged a long look that he couldn't read. Then the older man turned back to him with a lighter expression on his face. "Never mind that. My name is Niklas Einstein and this is my niece Berta. Our farmhouse isn't that far from here. For now you can come with us, and we'll be able to get you back with the rest of your men soon."

Niklas knelt down beside him and helped him throw a clumsy arm over the farmer's shoulder. It took a couple tries for him to get his knees locked into an upright position, but eventually they were both standing.

Seeing the way the younger man's head dipped at the change in altitude, Niklas put out his other hand to stabilize him, getting a good grip on the soldier's belt. "It's all right, just move slowly. You'll feel better after a few minutes."

He stayed silent, unsure if he could talk without vomiting.

"What's your name, son?"

As soon as he found the ability, he looked up, blinking. He found the farmer's face beside his and the thought occurred to him that he must be of average height. Niklas Einstein was the same height as him, and Berta was standing only a couple inches shorter. Why was this new information? Shouldn't he be familiar with his own size?

"Hey, don't drift away on us. Can you tell us your name?"

Oh right. "My name? I don't know what my name is."

Berta stepped forward, tentatively setting a hand on his chest. "Do you mind if I check your dog tags for you?"

It made sense to do, but he couldn't help feeling a little nervous. "I guess you can."

He looked straight ahead while she unbuttoned his jacket, trying not to sway or throw up on her.

"The top buttons are ripped off your jacket." She told him, gently pulling at the dress shirt underneath. "This is torn too. What happened to - Oh..."

"What?" he reached up a shaking hand to feel the sore flesh at his throat.

The farmer and his niece were both frowning at him now. "There's horrible bruises here, and some torn flesh too. I'm surprised you can even talk, young man. It looks like someone tried to strangle you."

After a minute of carefully shuffling through the ripped material, Berta sighed in frustration. "You haven't got any dog tags. I can see the marks on your neck where they were pulled off."

So... that meant...

"How do I know what my name is, then?"


	2. Otto Through the Looking Glass

**Chapter Two: **

**Otto Through the Looking Glass**

They set off at a slow pace for Niklas and Berta Einstein's farm. At first he was practically hanging off Niklas' shoulder, but after a couple more stops for water they were able to put together a reasonable attempt at walking.

The sun was breaking through the morning's clouds, and he found his tensed, bruised muscles easing under the warmth. Gradually the fog faded from his eyes, and instead he became aware of an increasing discomfort elsewhere: his head. It was empty like a cracked water bucket.

He glanced over at Niklas Einstein. A lifetime of labour had left the farmer's face furrowed with lines of past emotions. His thick beard was white, and his hair thinning under his cap, but he was still strong of limb. It was easy to read what kind of a life he had led.

He looked down at his own battered hands and hoped it would be just as easy to read his own story once he got a look in a mirror.

"You're walking a bit better now," Niklas commented beside him. "I don't think you have any broken bones."

He didn't try to shake his head because it was still throbbing like a kettle drum. "No. I'm fine. I'd know if anything was broken."

There was a flurry of blue skirts as the farmer's niece dropped back to walk beside him. Berta ran a hand down his arm, her blue eyes unsettlingly close to his own. "Oh no! Have you broken bones in the past?"

It was a trick question of course. She had been asking them ever since they discovered he couldn't remember his own name. It kind of bothered him that she thought he was stupid enough to fall for that.

He brought a hand up to rub his eyes, surreptitiously knocking her hand off his arm. "I've probably broken something at least once. I am in the army, right?"

Niklas frowned, thick grey brow wrinkling. "Yes. But we don't exactly see fighting action around here. I can't think who would dare attack an army officer. Unless you work at that prison camp near Hammelburg. But how you'd get here from there..."

The last part made his head throb harder. "Prison camp?"

"Explain it to him later, Uncle." Berta gave his elbow a soft pat. "Here's the house. I'll go find Sigmund."

The wooden fence they had been following finally gave way to a short dirt driveway. At its end was a comfortable sized farmhouse, smoke puffing from the chimney to welcome them. Berta ran ahead of them, disappearing around the side of the house.

"My son Sigmund is a bit of doctor to the animals around here. But he helps out too, when the farm hands get hurt."

He glanced over to see Niklas' face fall into well-worn grooves of regret.

"He's not in the army. But if he was, he would have gone far. Sigmund is an upstanding member of the Nazi party, you know."

They were greeted at the door by a middle-aged woman with a bun of wispy blonde hair at the back of her head. She was wearing a dark red apron, and a concerned expression. "Oh Niklas, there really was a soldier on the road. Is he alright? Bring the young man inside. Poor thing, is he hurt? Where did Berta get off to?"

Leaning on the farmer as they manoeuvred the front steps, he gave her a mangled smile.

"She's fetching Sigmund," Niklas responded. "This is Berta's mother, my sister Elizabeth Funke."

Elizabeth held the door open as they stumbled into a small wood-panelled sitting room. "And what's your name, son?"

Thankfully, Niklas answered for him. "He can't remember. Has a head injury. I'm going to bring him into the kitchen so Sigmund can have a look at him."

He had to avoid turning his head to see what her reaction would be. He could hear her following as they moved further into the house.

"That's horrible. I'll get his first aid kit. What is the world coming to?"

He was seated at the kitchen table and a couple minutes later Sigmund limped in the back door. He was a strong looking man, a bit taller and older than himself, with his cousin's straw blonde hair. There was an obvious limp as he walked and his clean-shaven jaw jutted out in a permanent frown.

The soldier felt his hackles rising.

For whatever reason, he had been checking out possible exits ever since they entered the house, and right now he was considering using them.

But then again, following his instincts wasn't necessarily a good idea; he had also found himself checking out the contents of everyone's pockets since he had woken up. Sigmund didn't carry a wallet, but had papers, probably ID related, in his front breast pocket, Berta kept a change purse tucked in her skirt waistband, Elizabeth had several rings, probably expensive and removed for household chores, in her apron pocket, and Sigmund looked to be carry a small wallet in his back pocket.

Possibly the instinct to gather odd information and prepare to escape was a military thing. But he decided to ignore it for now.

Stopping at the edge of the table, Sigmund Einstein took a long look at the soldier, and then turned to his father. "I'll need my first aid kit."

"Elizabeth is getting it."

"Good." The medic turned back to his patient. "So you don't remember anything but the last few hours."

"No." He gave a little cough and started again. "I just know I was walking. But, it was dark, I think, when I first woke up."

A soft smile tugged at the edge of Sigmund's mouth, and he was surprised at the difference it made.

"Well, I can see you've taken quiet a knocking to the side of your head, soldier. So it's not at all odd that your memory is affected. They told you my name is Sigmund?"

"Yes."

"Well I can't keep calling you 'soldier'." Sigmund smiled again. "Is there a name you'd like to use for now?"

"I can't really think of anything."

"How about Otto? Otto Mustermann. Just an everyman name."

Otto. It didn't really sound like his name. But it would work.

"Sure."

At that moment, Berta came into the room, lugging an old tin box over to the table.

She couldn't help grinning at Otto as she deposited the box on the table. "I've got the kit. Mama is heating water for a bath. Can I help in any way?"

"Not really." Sigmund watched as his cousin settled into one of the chairs at the table, showing no signs of leaving. "He's decided we can call him Otto for now."

Berta blinked. "That's a boring name. Wouldn't you like to be called Adolf?"

"It would be a little presumptuous," Sigmund frowned. "Now stay quiet while I work."

Otto kept his mouth shut and wondered if he would find the young woman so intimidating if he had the slightest handle on his own identity.

Pulling out a bottle of disinfectant, Sigmund continued to talk as he cleaned the abrasions around Otto's throat. "It looks like you were in quite the fight. I'm going make sure these sores are on their way to healing, and then check out that spot behind your ear. Before you go wash up, I also want a quick look at your abdomen, because you seem to be pained there. Do you have any sharp pain in your chest?"

"Not sharp pain."

"And any problem breathing?" Sigmund asked.

"No."

"It's probably just bruising then, but I want to be on the safe side."

Otto let out a long breath, relieved at how gentle and straightforward the medic was being. He still wasn't very comfortable with being touched, but it wasn't nearly as bad as he had expected it to be.

"So," Sigmund started. "I imagine you have a lot of questions about things. It's a very complicated world for you to just fall into. But I'll try and make some sense of it for you. My father told you where you are?"

"Hammelburg. But, I don't know, can't remember, what country we're in."

"That's alright. It wouldn't make a lot of sense to remember one and not the other, would it? You're in Germany. It's a country in Europe, one of the oldest and most forward thinking places in the world."

Otto winced as Sigmund dabbed at a particularly tender spot. "So we are in Germany, and that's why we're speaking German?" Otto confirmed.

Across the table, Berta tipped her head to the side and smiled at him. "Yes. That's generally what German people do."

Blushing, Otto was glad he hadn't asked his original question; why are we all speaking German when English would be so much easier? Perhaps it was a matter of national pride to master such an unnatural language.

Sigmund frowned at his cousin. "So Germany is at war now. We've been beaten down for many years now, and we are finally rising up to take our rightful place in the world."

As he cleaned, wrapped, and disinfected, Sigmund Einstein explained how their leader Hitler had stood up to the prideful British, the French, the Americans, the Russians, and countless other countries and people Otto lost track of.

Sigmund's face lit up as he described the war machine to the younger man. "We're fighting the Bolshevik hordes to the east, and taking back Europe in the West. The days of Germany's glory have returned. You are very lucky to fight in this war movement, my friend."

Otto found himself smiling, even though it was a lot to take in at one time. "And you are sure that I am in this army of ours?"

"See this symbol on your uniform?" Sigmund asked, placing a hand on his shoulder where various stripes were stitched to the dark grey fabric.

Otto nodded cautiously.

"It means you're a Second Lieutenant in the army. Our army."

They shared a grin, and then Sigmund stood up, wiping his hands on a towel. "Well, I'm all finished up. My aunt left a bit of food for you on the counter there. Then you can get a bit of rest while I see about getting in contact with your superior officers. If you're feeling up to it we can go into town to the army headquarters later this afternoon."

Otto watched as Sigmund left the kitchen, wondering if he had that amount of devotion to the war cause. Was he fighting for a cause that he believed in, or just doing the job that was expected of him?

When he had finished eating, Elizabeth handed him a set of clean clothes and pushed him into the small bathroom where a large washbasin sat on the floor, full of steaming hot water.

Elizabeth smiled at him kindly, "You can give me your clothes afterwards, and I'll see what I can do about washing and repairing them. These are just something to wear in the meantime."

Finally the door was shut behind him and he let out a long breath. Otto looked around the room and spotted a chair in the corner. It might have been paranoia, but he picked it up and quietly set it under the doorknob so it couldn't be opened from the outside.

It made him feel safer.

Then he crossed to the mirror, impatient to find out what he looked like.

For several minutes he just stared at his reflection.

It was wrong.

The man in the mirror was bigger than he had expected, with broad shoulders and striking black hair. He had a small clipped moustache on his upper lip, and his hair still showed signs of being oiled and parted at the side.

Otto frowned.

At the moment his skin was stark white, making the contrast with his jet black hair and hooded green eyes even harsher. But the face wasn't that bad. He thought he liked it. It was a little worse for wear at the moment, his eyes puffy from abuse, his lip split and his throat and jaw smudged with purple. But the possibility was still there for it to be a good face.

The rest of the picture wasn't as comforting.

Although it was stained and torn now, his uniform had obviously been well fitted and well cared for. His boots had been polished, his moustache combed and his hair styled. The man in the mirror showed all the signs of being stuck up and conceited: someone looking to exude disciple and control. He didn't like that sort, the sort that put on airs and... and... did things.

"Damn."

He wondered if he would be angry at himself for changing things up: losing the moustache, the hair gel, and maybe even slouching a bit.

Otto drew back from the mirror, watching himself warily as he began to unbutton his jacket. He didn't trust his reflection. The hooded green eyes seemed friendly. But everything else was just off.

Rolling his aching shoulders, Otto tugged off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. He looked back in the mirror and frowned. Something was wrong.

He had shrunk.

Otto snatched his jacket up and turned it inside out, wincing slightly as he moved. A roll of fabric was sewn to the inside of each shoulder; the jacket was padded. Standing in just his shirtsleeves the broad shoulders had disappeared, and he was left looking at a lean, lanky sort of person.

Why was he padding his jacket?

Was he really that vain of a man? Or perhaps he had forgotten, and everyone tried to make themselves look bigger and stronger?

Gingerly, Otto worked his way out of his shirt, wincing as all his bruises came to light. The skin around his wrists was purple and red, and there were blotches of deep purple all over his torso and back. With his shirt collar gone, he could tell that his entire neck was swollen and bruised. But for some reason, the idea that he had been in a fight didn't really disturb him.

If that meant he was a bit of a scrapper, then it was a good sign. If it meant he was violent just for the fun of it, then Otto wasn't really a big fan of himself so far.

Otto hastened to untie his boots and yank them off. To his dismay, these were stuffed as well. They were at least a size bigger than necessary. It didn't mean he was short, but he definitely wasn't as impressive as he had first appeared.

Growing more disturbed by the minute, Otto finished undressing and settled in to give himself a good scrub. By the time he was all clean he had reached a decision. Whoever the man from the mirror was, it would be best to comply with his taste until he got to know the man better.

It didn't make combing his hair any easier. The thick black stuff just wouldn't lie flat, and it definitely didn't fall into a part naturally.

He slipped into the fresh clothes. The white shirt was a little baggy, but the pants were all right when he rolled up the cuffs a couple times. Otto put his boots back on, unwilling to advertise the fact that he wasn't quite as tall as he seemed. He would find out later whether or not it was common to wear rises in your shoes.

He scrubbed at his face, wondering why it didn't look familiar to him. There was something in his mind that identified with his reflection, but not completely. Splashing water once more he dropped his hands in surprise when his moustache moved, and slipped to the side. He rubbed at it, and it slowly loosened before coming off his upper lip completely. Confounded, he examined it in his hands. It was cleverly made, but fake. Why was he wearing a false moustache?

Nobody's vanity went that far, did it?

Nervous, he flushed it down the toilet before leaving the bathroom.

Berta was sitting on the carved bench in the hallway and already had her eyes on him when he noticed her. For a second he was afraid she would comment on how much scrawnier he looked. But she seemed to be too focussed his face.

"Ach. You found the razor. Why did you shave off your moustache?"

"I... it looked wrong."

She shrugged, and then blushed a little as she turned away. "I'll show you to the front room.

They had made a cot up for him in the bedroom at the front of the house, and Berta left the door open a crack when she left, letting him know he could call if he needed anything.

At this point he wasn't sure what he needed. He wanted to know who he was, but he was afraid of what his returning memories would be. Without knowing who he was, he couldn't know if he was safe here. He was exhausted and sore, but also buzzing with questions and confusion and...

It took him less than five minutes to fall asleep.

_Smoke and a deep wall of flames. _

_That's all he can remember. _

_At first he thought that high note of terror and desperation was part of the memory, but after sitting up with his eyes wide open, he's pretty sure what he's hearing is himself._

He crashed awake, panting and wet with sweat. The door across the room banged open as his hosts came rushing in.

"Otto! Are you okay? You were screaming?"

"Otto?"

His dreams were fading too fast for him to remember the details, but he knew one thing.

He had a very good reason for not remembering his past. He didn't want to.


	3. Two POWs and a German Walk into a Barn

**Chapter Three:**

**Two POWs and a German Walk into a Bar(n)**

Carter was slowly shuffling a pack of cards against the barracks room table, occasionally glancing up at the door to see if it had possibly opened while he was looking away. The last fifteen times he had checked, it was still closed. Still no sign of Hogan.

Across the table, Kinchloe closed his book and quietly laid it on the bench beside him. "Do you want to actually play something with those, Carter?"

The blond American blinked and grinned sheepishly. "No. I'm fine, Kinch. Didn't really notice what I was doing with my fingers." He discarded the playing cards with a slow huff of air. "How much longer is it going to take Colonel Hogan to get back? If Klink doesn't know where they are, I think I'm going to go crazy."

Kinchloe picked up the cards and started laying out a solitaire game on the table between them. "You know how Kommandant Klink is. Sometimes it's hard to shut him up if he gets started on the wrong subject."

"I know. I'm just worried is all."

Kinchloe smiled faintly, a hint of white teeth against his dark skin. "I think everybody is."

Their unofficial second-in-command turned to his solitaire game, but soon found it wasn't going to help him pass the time very well. Carter was once again picking up the cards and fiddling with them. Even when he put them back in the same place, it kind of ruined the surprise.

"Maybe we should go out the tunnel and just check around again."

Kinch gently eased an essential card from Carter's grip and set it down in the right spot. "You know they weren't going to return on foot anyways. Schultz was going to drive them back, just like he drove them out."

"I know, but maybe they-"

"Took a taxi and then walked back from Hammelburg?" Kinch interrupted. He waited a moment for the amateur chemist to look up and meet his gaze. "We're all worried, Carter. But there's absolutely no point in searching until we know where to start looking. They could be anywhere."

Nodding sadly, Carter dropped his chin to his hands, leaning forward on the table. "You're right, Kinch. Guess I'm just getting ahead of myself."

With a rush of cool morning air, the barracks door opened, and everyone looked up eagerly. Carter jumped to his feet as Colonel Hogan slipped in the door and shut it behind him.

"What did he say? Does Klink know anything?"

Their handsome senior POW looked around the barracks, and then leaned heavily back against the door, crossing his arms. "Alright everyone, I've talked to Kommandant Klink, and we have a bit of a problem. Our clever Iron Eagle thinks Newkirk and LeBeau are still under quarantine at the hospital. He hasn't received any notifications about escaped prisoners or captured Frenchmen. Neither Burkhalter or Hochstetter have called to ask why his POWs are running around outside the wire."

Hogan took a deep breath, kneading his forehead with one hand. "So we can assume that if the Germans arrested the two of them, they at least don't know who they are."

One of the men spoke up from a bunk at the end of the barracks. "Do you think they might just be back at the hospital, Colonel? Maybe they got held up and forgot to call."

Hogan smiled wryly. The whole barracks had noticed the absence of their two noisiest members. Whenever they returned from a joint operation the rest of the barracks got to enjoy hearing their fully dramatized complaints against each other. Even when they snuck back from a night run, the whispered arguments in a mixture of French and Cockney slang were hard to ignore.

"Sorry men, Doctor Rosenthal already radioed us this morning to find out if he should keep pretending he has the two of them at his hospital. He said they never came back to return the car to him last night. Obviously, that's why the doctor didn't call Schultz to transport them back here."

There wasn't much more to say after that. Everyone in Barracks 2 returned to their late morning activities, but the heavy air of concern, and little bit of fear, was nearly tangible.

With a sigh, Colonel Hogan beckoned the two remaining members of his core crew over to his private room.

Kinch closed the door behind them. "So what exactly do we know, Colonel?"

Hogan frowned, and ventured over to his bunk to sit down. Carter followed behind him and sat down on the desk top, staring at his commanding officer hopefully.

"Well, we know Shultz dropped Newkirk and LeBeau off at the hospital yesterday morning to be 'quarantined with measles'. Doctor Rosenthal confirmed that they changed into their disguises and headed out with his car at the correct time."

Kinch brought out his scratch pad from the radio and studied it. "The underground said that Newkirk called to confirm the handover for last night was on. So they must have picked up the Gestapo officer and successfully copied his papers."

"I don't get it." Carter raised his hand. "Isn't that why Colonel Hogan sent them out? To get the guy's papers? If they completed their mission, then why haven't they come home yet?"

Hogan sighed. "That's what we're all wondering, Carter."

"Something must have happened at the handover," Kinch said. "The underground wired and let us know that Astor still hasn't made it back from his meet with Newkirk and LeBeau, so something must have happened to all three of them."

Hogan threw his hands up in the air. "And yet we haven't heard any news of their capture!"

"They should have made it back before roll call this morning," Carter pointed out uselessly.

Kinch gave him a blank stare.

Carter blinked. "But they even had a car!"

"Never mind." Hogan stood up and began to pace. "Something's gone very wrong. We're going to have to ask Dr. Rosenthal to keep pretending they're infectious for at least another day. That should be enough to keep Klink away for a little while longer. Kinch, I want you to radio the underground and arrange for them to meet us just south of the barn tonight after roll call. We have to figure out what happened there last night."

"What time do you want them to meet us?" Kinch asked, heading for the door. "The barn where they were going to meet is almost a three hour walk from Hammelburg."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "We'll take a car from the motorcade then. Tell them to give us an hour after lights out, and then we'll be there."

Kinch nodded, giving his commanding officer a small smile. "Will do, Colonel."

Watching as Kinch left, Carter turned to Hogan. "What do you think happened? I'm worried about them, and I didn't even sleep great without Newkirk making noise up on the top bunk."

"And here Newkirk claimed you were the one by the door that snores."

Carter blushed, and Hogan gave him a pat on the shoulder. "I really don't know what happened. It should have been a simple mission: one underground member, one abandoned barn, Newkirk, and LeBeau. It was just a simple hand off."

**0 0 0**

_This time he is a kid, wandering through narrow streets sheeted in pollution and grime. The tall buildings seem to lean together, blocking out the light from a cloud-covered sky above. Men and women in dark clothes push past him on the sidewalks and try to avoid splashings from the dirty street. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and ignores the pangs of hunger from his stomach. _

_Up ahead a vendor is selling roasted chestnuts. The man is concentrating on his hot tin grating. Would he notice the loss of a few chestnuts? They were only just small little things._

_Keeping his gait even, he weaves through the adults, reaching out at the last minute to snatch up a handful of the freshly roasted nuts. _

_He takes two steps, determined to disappear into the crowd. But a tear on his sleeve catches the edge of the vendor's tongs, and they clatter to the pavement._

_With a jolt his escape is halted. The vendor grabs him by the back of the collar, shaking him violently. "What the bloody 'ell do you think you're doing!" the man snarls, and suddenly he realises he should have stolen from someone less brawny._

_He doesn't want to let go of the food; his stomach is still complaining. But the man grabs his hand in an iron grip as he squirms to get away. "You filthy little devil. I'll teach you to steal from me!"_

_The vendor hauls him closer to the grating where flames still lick at his cooking. Then he's kicking and fighting as hard as he can, but the hold on his wrist doesn't loosen and suddenly his hand explodes in pain. _

_He's howling as his skin sizzles against the grate and the vendor has to bend over to push him against the hot metal and then he uses his free hand to scratch at the man's face as hard as he can and the man lets go with a shout and he's already running._

_He's running and running, bumping into people and losing himself in the greyness of coats and coal-stained walls. And he's clutching his hand, and staring at the blistering red skin and crying and watching the painful sores split and peel as he stretches out his throbbing fingers. And it looks horrific and then he realises it's not his hand he's looking at. He's looking at a face, a face that burns with flames even as he reaches out and tries to stop the fire. It's a face that's calling for help, and he's trying to help but it hurts and he can't reach and he knows it's too late and the fire is killing his friend and he can't reach and the flames are so hot and-_

This time he woke up by flinging himself right off the cot.

Otto lay on the floor for a few minutes staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling above him and trying to convince himself that it was just a messed up dream and he had nothing to worry about.

He took a couple of deep breaths and finally pushed himself up into a sitting position.

The blankets on the cot were twisted into tight ropes of fabric, and the little cross-stitch cushion they had given him was on the other side of the room.

So much for a nice healing nap.

At least he hadn't brought them running with screaming this time.

Otto saw a pile of clothes on the chair by the door, and stood up, brushing dust off his pants. It seemed that Elizabeth had cleaned his uniform and left it there for him to change back into.

Stretching out his sore limbs he took the fresh clothes and began to dress himself again. As much as he recognised them from seeing them in the mirror, they didn't really register as _his_ clothes. As Otto buttoned up the fitted grey jacket, he couldn't help but think he would feel more comfortable in something a little less formal. Maybe a nice warm jersey instead.

That said, dressing up like this made him feel a bit more like the conquering warrior Sigmund and Berta seemed to think he must be. So perhaps it was for the best.

Otto slowly wandered out of the front room, noticing the sky through the sitting room window was now at full brightness. It was probably a couple hours after noon now.

"Isn't it funny to think you're only half a day old?"

He jumped, jerking away from the voice before he realised that Berta was sitting quietly on the ottoman in the sitting room.

"Blime- Sorry." He flushed red. "You startled me."

She stood up, brushing out her skirts. "I didn't mean to. Are you feeling any better?"

Otto nodded, lying easily. "Much better, thank you. I think the nap did the trick."

"That's good. Come on." Berta smiled, playing with her long blonde braid as she walked past him. "Sigmund's bringing the truck around to the front of the house. Do you think any of your memory is coming back yet? I thought maybe sleeping might help with that."

"No!" He said it louder than he meant to, and Berta glanced back to look at him, blue eyes wide. "No, I mean I can't remember anything yet. Maybe... maybe I won't get any of my memories back."

Berta shrugged. "I'm sure they'll come back eventually."

They headed out the front door.

"And don't do that, Otto. It looks silly."

"What?"

Berta pulled on the sweater she had folded over one arm. Otto watched her button it up. "Don't stuff your hands in your pockets like that. It makes your jacket bunch up.

Otto looked down. There were already creases all around his pockets. Apparently he had been doing that a lot without noticing. He carefully folded his hands behind his back instead.

Now that he had eaten and cleaned up, it seemed to be a lot easier to look at things clearly. From the farmhouse doorstep he could see the land around him was mostly pastoral although there was forest on the edge of the fields farther to the west. Sigmund had explained that much of the farmland wasn't being used, since so many of the young men were off fighting. The women and the few men who were left weren't able do half as much work as before.

It gave the whole area a peaceful empty sort of feeling.

"Hey there!"

At the end of the yard Sigmund was standing up in the driver's seat of a truck, waving at them. "Come on then!"

Berta offered Otto her hand, smiling widely. "Let's go find out who you are, Otto."

Because that's exactly what he wanted.

Quelling the voice of sarcasm within, Otto took her hand and followed the young women across the yard to the edge of the road.

"You're looking much better Otto," Sigmund said.

"Thanks. I feel better too."

"So where exactly are we headed?" Berta asked.

Sigmund sat down at the wheel. "I think the first place to start would be the army headquarters in Hammelburg. They would probably have a pretty good idea who is doing what in this area. I also know there's a Gestapo major working there at the moment. They always know what's going on."

"Gestapo?" Otto turned to Sigmund. "What does that mean?"

"They're the state police," Sigmund explained. "They take care of all sorts of things in Germany. Mostly they keep an eye out for traitors and sabotage attempts among our people."

Otto nodded, noticing how Berta had stopped smiling while Sigmund spoke, and was subtly pulling her sweater closer around her arms. He offered her a hand up into the cab of the truck. She met his green eyes and her smile returned.

"You're doing it again."

Otto paused, and then hastily pulled his hands from his pocket. "Oops."

The cab of the truck had a leather bench seat, and the three of them fit side by side, Sigmund driving, Berta beside him, and Otto peering out the window on the other side.

"So many bloody trees."

"What?" Berta asked.

Otto pointed out the window as they pulled onto the dirt road and began driving back in the direction Otto had walked from. "There's just so many trees and so much green stuff out there. Why does it just grow like that?"

She looked at him oddly. "What did you expect it to do?"

He flushed red. "I don't know. Die or shrivel up, I guess." He thought back to his dreams of crowded streets and heavy pea soup. Pollution. That was the word he was thinking of. But for some reason there didn't seem to be any of it around.

Berta laughed, a high, musical sound. "You're funny, Otto."

Otto turned away, glaring out the open window.

They had only been driving for fifteen minutes when Sigmund took his foot off the gas. "Hey Otto. Do you recognise anything around here?"

Raising an eyebrow, the soldier looked around incredulously. What was to recognise? It was just a bunch of grass, bushes and some trees.

"No. Not really. Why?"

Sigmund peered out the window for a moment, and then brought the car to a sudden stop and jumped out of the driver's side door. A minute later he was back, holding a grey officer's cap in his hand. His pale blue eyes glinted as he handed it across Otto.

"Looks like we're headed in the right direction."

Otto examined the cap as they continued driving. The right side was splattered in dry blood exactly where it would have met the bandaged spot behind his right temple. It must be his. More confirmation that he was someone he didn't feel like.

Sigmund started the truck again, but they only made it around one more turn in the road before they had to stop again. There was a road block in the middle of their path, several soldiers waiting at its side, and another half a dozen milling around the edge of the road. Although a stand of trees was blocking their view, they could see wisps of smoke rising a little ways off to their left.

They pulled up to the road block and a German corporal came over to the open window. "Good afternoon. Where are you three headed?"

"To Hammelburg." Sigmund waved at Berta and Otto. "We live on a farm just up the road. May I ask what is going on here?"

"Classified war business," the corporal responded.

Sigmund smiled. "The thing is, sir, my cousin and I are trying to help this man here. He's a soldier that we found injured a couple miles up the road. Something happened to him last night, and he seems to be suffering from amnesia. His dog tags have been ripped off."

Otto swallowed the lump in his throat as the corporal's eyes lit up and he leaned forward to get a better look at the amnesiac. Whatever he saw, it seemed to be what he was looking for. The officer stepped back from the car waved at the other men. "Call the Sergeant over for me!" He turned back to Sigmund. "You three park over there and then follow me."

They parked the truck and hurried to the side of the rode where an officious looking fellow with a red beard appeared. He was scowling deeply, and snapped at the corporal. "Who are these people getting in the way? You-!" Otto froze, realising the man was pointing at him. "What are you doing here in that state? You look like your face has been run over by a tank. Is that how you behave in the army? I want your_ name, rank and serial number_ right now."

The words hit Otto like a punch in the gut. It was like slamming into a giant wall in his head, a wall that hid all his memories but wouldn't let them out. "I, I..."

"Otto?"

He heard Sigmund's voice, and maybe someone else's as well. Then the next thing he knew, he was on the ground on his hands and knees, throwing up violently.

The bearded sergeant left him alone after that, and Otto tried to regain his breath while Berta rubbed his back and Sigmund explained the situation over top of his head.

"So you found him at what time this morning?"

"My cousin, Miss Funke, bumped into him on the road when she was going out to the goat pen. It was probably around six thirty."

Otto could feel the Sergeant's eyes on his back, and was grateful when Berta passed him her small tin of water again. He swished the liquid around in his mouth and then spat it out angrily. Berta helped him get back to his feet.

He kept his face neutral while the Sergeant looked him over. Finally the man's stern gaze relented, and he seemed to come to a decision. "I'm sure you three can see that there was an incident here last night. It appears that your friend here - what did you say you're calling yourself?"

"Otto Mustermann, sir."

With a faint smile, the Sergeant continued. "Well it appears that you are the missing element of this conflict, Otto."

Sigmund leaned forward unconsciously, blue eyes growing brighter, while Otto felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

"Gestapo Major Hochstetter sent out his new surveillance patrol last night to stakeout an abandoned barn in this area. You can see the remains of it smoking behind us. Anyways, he suspected it was a meeting point for a local cell of conspirators and it turns out he was quite correct... for once. The patrol never reported back, and this morning we found them all dead outside the ruins of the barn."

Berta gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

"It appears that there was a meeting between some of the underground conspirators in that barn last night. Our men surprised them, and were able to lock two of the traitors up in the barn. We found their bodies inside. Unfortunately, Hochstetter's patrol must have been outnumbered, because now they're dead."

He sent Otto a serious look. "One of them died when the walls of the barn collapsed outwards, two of them were shot, and the patrol's commanding officer was stabbed to death. The only problem is, Major Hochstetter assigned five men to the surveillance patrol, and we only found four of their bodies."

The Sergeant counted the men off on his gloved fingers. "Two conspirators, burned to death, three dead second lieutenants, one dead commanding officer, and one second lieutenant missing from the count."

Swallowing thickly, Otto spoke. "Me? I'm your missing lieutenant?"

He jerked forward when Sigmund slapped him on the back. "It looks like it!"

"If you are the only survivor of this incident," the bearded sergeant frowned at him, "then it's crucial that you get your head straightened out. We need to know who the other members of the underground cell are. If you were here last night, then you're the only one left who can identify them. You're the only one who knows what happened."


	4. No French Toast at Midnight

_My computer is fixed, communication is restored with my Beta/room-mate who just moved 4400 km and three time zones to the east, and this story is back on track! Much thanks for everyone's patience and encouragement. - Thaddeus_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four:<strong>

**No French Toast at Midnight**

"This is where we stop." Hogan whispered, quietly switching off the engine. "I want to push the car into the bushes so it can't be seen from the road."

"Sounds good, Colonel." Carter whispered back. "Do you want me to leave the explosives in the back?"

"You brought explosives?"

Carter nodded. "I thought them might come in handy."

"Why are we whispering?" Kinch hissed. "We're still a good five minute walk from the barn."

"Don't look at me," Carter protested. "The Colonel started it."

Hogan switched the truck into neutral with an unnecessarily violent tug at the gear shift. "Just get out and push, please."

Kinch and Carter shared a grin as they clambered out and started pushing the truck off the side of the road. Once it was well hidden, Hogan joined them, tugging at his long black turtle neck. "Alright boys, everyone ready? Carter, you've got the chloroform?"

The young chemist slapped the side of his pack, causing Kinch to wince. "Right here."

"And both of you remembered to load your pistols?"

Carter looked surprised. "With bullets?

Hogan held up a hand for silence. "I don't want us to use these unless it's really necessary. So let's just think of them as the back up to our back up plan."

They trudged along the edge of the road in the dark. The moon was out, but shifting clouds gave them some cover. Soon Hogan placed a finger to his lips and motioned to cut into the fields and clumps of trees so they could approach the barn from the back with better cover. They weren't that far away when Kinch caught the edge of Hogan's sleeve, pulling him close to speak softly.

"Do you smell that? Something's really off."

Hogan raised his head, turning a little till he caught the stench. "It smells like wet burnt wood and it's pretty strong too."

They crept forward slower now, until they were on the edge of a clearing that hadn't been there before.

"Where's the barn?" Carter exclaimed before Hogan clapped a hand over his mouth.

They were all staring at the mound of crumbling ash and wreckage that used to be their meeting place. It had been razed almost to the ground. Only a couple of the giant ceilings beams remained, blackened and strewn across the foul smelling ash.

_"Was ist das?"_

The three Heroes ducked down. "Get out the chloroform," Hogan hissed.

The poor guard never knew what hit him. One minute he was checking out a mysterious noise in the bushes, and the next he was jumped from behind, slipping off to sleep before he even hit the ground.

Hogan stood up, brushing off his hands. "I'll dump him in the bushes. Kinch, I want you to circle the, um... barn, to the right, Carter to the left. Make sure there aren't any more guards. Our contacts from the underground should be here any minute now."

Watching them disappear into the night, Hogan slowly approached the edge of the former barn. He kicked at a stray chuck of burnt shingle. The wreckage was stone cold now. It had been cooling for some time.

"Probably since last night," Hogan muttered. "Damn those two. You're going to turn me grey before my time, Newkirk and LeBeau."

Hogan dropped his pack to the ground and began to carefully pick his way through the ruins of the barn. He approached the couple large piles of debris and scouted around the perimeter of the massive rafters.

"Well what do we have here? Hogan asked as he hopped down beside one of the giant beams. The ground around it had been cleared out, and several numbered markers were scattered about. Sighing, he crouched beside the markers. Hogan had seen them once before, when there had been an explosion at the air field where he trained and several men were killed.

The little numbered markers pinpointed the place where a body had been found.

"Colonel."

Glancing up, Hogan spotted the shadowy figure of Carter approaching. A couple steps behind him were Herr Wolfe and Herr Vogt, two of their local contacts for the previous mission. Hogan got to his feet, offering a hand which the two men shook heartily.

Wolfe was an older man, with bristly grey hair that always made Hogan think of the man's namesake. Herr Vogt was a younger fellow, with a long face and matching long legs. Right now both men were wearing an expression of concern.

"It is good to see you, Papa Bear," Wolfe said. "But I wish this meeting wasn't necessary. The information your two men were bringing us was vital for the safety of every local member of the underground."

Hogan grinned wryly. "Don't I know it? That's why I put two of my best men of the job, and now all we're left with is this."

He indicated the ruins around them.

"What happened here?" Vogt asked.

Carter broke into the conversation. "We were kind of hoping you guys had some answers. Last time we were here, there was a barn right about where I'm standing."

"Where's Kinch?" Hogan looked around.

"Found some stuff on the driveway that he wanted to look at, Colonel. There's a bunch of funny little markers on the ground."

Dark eyebrows knitting, the POW's commanding officer nodded. He was beginning to form some idea of what had happened the night before.

"You still haven't received any word from Herr Astor?" Hogan confirmed.

"Not a word."

There was rustling in the bushes to their side, and all four men froze. A second later, Kinch emerged, his face grim. He nodded a greeting to their underground associates and turned to Hogan. "There are markers on the ground out front, Colonel. If I'm not mistaken there was some kind of fight. It looks like four bodies were collected. They didn't leave any else behind, so I don't know if they're theirs or ours..."

Wolfe frowned. "What does this mean?"

Beckoning them to follow, Hogan moved through the debris of the barn back towards the ceiling beams. "It means some sort of confrontation went down here last night and our boys got messed up in it."

He pointed at the markers and a couple empty shells on the ground. "Two more bodies lay here, but we don't have any way of knowing who exactly."

The night air seemed much colder as they stood looking at the ashy ground.

"Colonel?" Everyone looked over to see Carter's white moonlit face. "If Newkirk and LeBeau, and Herr Astor too – if they had made it out, they would have come home, wouldn't they?"

Try as hard as he might, Hogan couldn't think of something comforting to say. He glanced over at his second in command, but Kinch couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the empty shotgun shells. The radioman was gripping his rucksack straps so hard his knuckles had paled with tension.

"Well - we would have heard something if the Nazis had got them. So it does seem more likely that, mm..." Hogan scanned the rubble around them desperately searching for some other explanation. If somebody had survived the shootout and the fire, then they would have been discovered in the morning.

"Herr Hogan," Vogt said soberly. "If we do not have the list of suspected Underground Agents from Herr Astor and your men, then all of us will have to stop operating. You will be alone at Stalag 13 because we will not know which of our people Major Hochstetter has under surveillance."

Sighing, Hogan rubbed a hand over his face. "I know. But I'm short some men right now, and until we know for certain what happened to them, I don't even know if our operations at Stalag 13 have been compromised."

He hated to think what might have gone on in the barn before it had burnt down. At least it looked like Newkirk and LeBeau had taken a few Nazis with them.

"Perhaps they left us a copy in the tunnel for safe keeping." Herr Wolfe said.

"What tunnel?" Carter asked, rubbing his gloved hands together. "We told you they haven't come back to Stalag 13 yet."

Herr Wolfe shook his head and nodded towards the back end of the barn's remains. "No. The tunnel under the barn. Did you check to see if they had left a copy inside?"

In the stunned silence that followed, Kinch finally wrenched his gaze from the spent bullets. "Are you telling us that there's a secret tunnel under here that we never knew about?"

Wolfe's bushy grey eyebrows shot up. "You didn't know? It was our escape route in case the barn was watched."

Kinch was looming right in the older man's face half a second later.

"Where is the entrance?"

The underground member carefully pointed to the side. "One entrance is under that pile of there, and the other is out the back."

Hogan strode over and tugged Kinch to the side. "Can you show us the outside entrance, Herr Wolfe?"

Giving Kinch a strange look, Wolfe led the way around the back of the barn to a clump of bushes. "It's right ther – oh."

A huge section of the back wall had collapsed outwards, and was now covering any potential exit from the secret tunnel.

Herr Vogt's long face stretched into a hopeful look. "Do you think they could be trapped under there?"

Hogan gave a tight twitch of a smile.

"Let's find out."

**0 0 0**

"Hello? Anybody there? Newkirk? LeBeau? Herr Astor?"

Twenty minutes later, they had dragged away the last piece of lumber, and uncovered a well-disguised trap door. With Carter and Kinch, Wolfe and Vogt anxiously hovering at the top, Colonel Hogan lowered himself into the hole.

Hogan stepped down the ladder gingerly, peering into the darkness. He couldn't even see his own hand on the ladder rungs.

"Hello?"

Silence reverberated around him.

Finally Hogan reached the bottom of the tunnel, feeling something in his stomach descend as well. Was no one here? Not one of his men?

"Is anyone down there?" Vogt called from above.

Hogan fumbled at his belt for his torch. "I don't know. It's too dark to-"

"Freeze, _maudit Boche_!" A sudden flash of light sent Hogan stumbling back into the ladder, throwing up his hands against the light.

"What the?"

The next moment Hogan had the air driven out of his lungs as someone kicked him square in the stomach.

"Take that!" A familiar voice shouted in his face. "Now how do you feel, you dirty, treacherous, _répugnant_... Hogan?"

Hogan couldn't help smiling around a groan of pain. "If I say yes will you get that light out of my face?"

"_Mon colonel!_" The torch light swung away and Hogan was enveloped in a fierce hug.

"I did not realise it was you!" LeBeau stepped back, smiling widely.

"So that's why you kicked me. You didn't clue in when I called your name?"

LeBeau ignored him, calling back into the tunnel. "Come forward, Astor it is Colonel Hogan, arrived to find us."

Hogan switched on his torch, shining it around his surroundings. The narrow dirt tunnel was still quite intact, but he could see a pile of dirt further up its length. A middle aged man with a thick salt and pepper moustache stepped from behind the pile.

The colonel nodded to him. "Nice to meet you, Astor." Then he turned to LeBeau. "Where's Newkirk?"

LeBeau went white and waved his hands around with uncoordinated emotion. "You do not have him with you? I thought you would save him, mon colonel. They dragged him away and I knew Hochstetter would call you and how you say, gloat, and you must come up with one of your plans to get him back or else they will hurt him, and I just let them get away, and we can't let them have Newkirk, we just could not manage without him, mon colonel-"

"LeBeau." Hogan grabbed the little Frenchman firmly by the arms. "Take a deep breath. Stop hyperventilating. You're acting like a hysterical old lady." He smiled briefly at the annoyed look he got in response. "I need you to tell me what happened last night. I haven't heard anything from Major Hochstetter, or Newkirk, or you, so I need to know what happened."

"Beg your pardon." Herr Astor interrupted in a thickly accented voice. "Can we get out of this tunnel first? It's been quite a while since we got fresh air."

Hogan nodded, rubbing at his face again. "Of course. I forgot. Do either of you need a hand?"

LeBeau shook his head determinedly, but he looked a little shaky. Hogan let him go first, in case he fell.

The Colonel emerged from the trap door a few minutes later to find Astor shaking his colleagues' hands and LeBeau receiving a firm hug from Carter. Kinch slapped the Frenchman on the back and turned to Hogan. "Newkirk?"

Their commanding officer shook his head.

"We have the list of names." Astor told them all, pulling out a paper from his pocket. "It is not as bad as it could be. But there are some of our people on here. They will have to cease all sabotage activity so they are not caught."

Herr Wolfe nodded, accepting the paper from Astor. "This is good news. But we still don't understand what went wrong with the operation."

"Why don't you start from the beginning, LeBeau?" Hogan said quietly.

"Well, the first part of the mission went according to plan." LeBeau sat down on a nearbye rock, took a very deep breath and tucked his hands between his knees. "Schultz dropped us off to the hospital and Doctor Rosenthal helped us change into our disguises."

The Frenchman grinned weakly up at his commanding officer. "You should have seen Newkirk when we were done with him. I do not think his own mother would have recognized him. What with the hair dye, the padding and those shoes..."

Hogan nodded grimly.

"Anyways. We picked up the officer at the train station like you said. Newkirk explained that Hochstetter had organised the ride, and then put the officer's suitcase in the trunk, where I was hiding."

"He didn't suspect anything?" Kinch asked.

LeBeau shook his head vigorously. "No. I copied the list, returned it to the suitcase, and when we reached the headquarters he went off with it, happy as an oyster."

"So what went wrong?" Hogan knelt down in front of LeBeau.

"Well Newkirk dialed up Astor and gave him the code to let him know the pick-up was on for tonight. We parked the Doctor's car in some trees not far away and then waited for dark. There were no lights on in the barn when we arrived..."

**0 0 0**

LeBeau was not in a good mood as they fumbled their way forward in the dark scrub brush. There was nothing enjoyable about lying in the trunk of a Nazi staff car for forty minutes, especially when half of that time also involved scrambling to copy a list of names in at least a semi-legible scrawl while your flashlight smacked you in the face with every bump in the road.

To top it off, Newkirk had been the picture of gloomy cynicism for most of the evening. He never liked to play what he called a 'toff' for very long. He said it made him feel dirty.

LeBeau was not feeling particularly sympathetic.

"If you complain one more time about something you had to endure while sitting in the _front seat _of the car, Newkirk, I am going to strangle you with your own tie."

Newkirk looked at his shorter friend suspiciously. "I'm not wearin' a tie."

"_Exactement!_" LeBeau snarled. "So stop complaining about the fancy dress. You are only wearing a uniform, and we wear those every day."

"Fine." Newkirk held up his hands in surrender. "Don't get your knickers in a knot. It's not the same thing, but I won't bring it up again. I know a grumpy Frenchman when I see one. Forgot to take your nap, did you?"

"Just shut up." LeBeau grumbled as the wooden slats of the barn wall formed in the darkness in front of them. He trudged along the edge of the building until they found the door. Newkirk held the flashlight steady while he pushed on the wooden door, letting it swing into the darkness.

The Englander peered over his shoulder. "You know... the business with the list isn't as bad is it could be. They could 'ave 'ad the names of an awful lot more of our men."

It was true, but LeBeau was in the mood to be in a bad mood, so it was easier to view their mission in a less rosy light.

"Yes. But it is still wrong that so many courageous Germans will have to give up their work just because of a few suspicious _espèces d' idiot_." He pulled out his torch, slowly sweeping the light across the interior of the barn. It was as lifeless as expected, and they both stepped through the doorway.

Newkirk smirked. "Language, language, LeBeau. That's 'ardly kind of you."

The Frenchman sent him an incredulous look. "I did not know more than six insults in English before I met you. Now I can probably out-curse a sailor."

Shutting the door behind him, Newkirk strolled further into the barn, clapping LeBeau on the back as he passed. "It's true, ain't it? What would you do without me, Louis?"

"Get into a lot less trouble," LeBeau grumbled to himself as he switched on the light by the door.

A string of uncovered light bulbs high on the ceiling flickered to life.

Although it was no longer in use, the huge one-room barn was still scattered with old crates and bales of musty hay. The large sliding doors at one end had been nailed shut years ago, but there was still one small door at each end of the building that opened. It wasn't one of LeBeau's favourite meeting spots, considering it was unheated, boring, a barn, dirty, and also, a barn. He would always be a city boy, of the opinion that farm animals should be eaten and not fraternized with. Therefore, barns were highly suspicious.

Hogan, of course, had no such concerns. He and the Underground leaders had been won over by the fact that a clump of trees obscured the barn from the road, and yet it was still close enough for easy access. The Colonel was completely unaffected by the fact that the first time they used the barn Carter actually stepped on a mouse. Instead he just agreed to let Carter keep the pest.

"If you keep making that face, it's goin' to stick like that."

Newkirk gave him lazy grin, amused by LeBeau's reluctance to touch anything. The Frenchman had discovered early on that his friend was a different kind of city boy, completely at home among dirty, rodent filled decay.

Now the Englander meandered around the room for a few minutes, languidly checking that nothing and no one was hiding behind any of the abandoned junk. Finally satisfied, he flopped back on one of the shorter bales.

"'m tired."

"What?"

"Said 'I'm tired'." Newkirk answered. "This ruddy uniform is too stiff to walk in properly."

LeBeau glanced over at his friend. "I think that is the point, _mon ami_."

"Well I'm not a fan o'-"

Suddenly Newkirk was on his feet, and LeBeau swung around, aiming his pistol at the back door, where a man had emerged.

It was a stout middle-aged German with a thick greying moustache dominating his face. He was also carrying a pistol and his eyes widened when he took in Newkirk's uniform.

LeBeau nodded when his friend caught his eye. As hard as the smaller POW had tried, which wasn't actually very hard, he had never managed to lose the thick French accent that coated his English, and worked its way into his attempts at German as well. As difficult as Newkirk's English could sometimes be to understand, he was an excellent mimic, and had become the closest of their bunch to sound like a local.

The Englander pulled himself together and ground out a question for the intruder. "_Don't you think this is an odd place to be, at this time of night?_"

"_It's not the oddest place I've been_," the man returned hesitantly.

"_Can you top Buckingham Palace?_"

"_Mongolia was very odd._"

LeBeau lowered his pistol, smiling as the German gave the correct response. "You are Herr Astor, I presume?"

Astor moved forward, offering his hand for LeBeau to shake. "_Guten Abend_. Yes I am Astor. I didn't realise one of the guards was part of your operation at Stalag 13."

Seeing the Englander's smirk out the corner of his eye, LeBeau couldn't help but grin.

Newkirk strolled forward and offered Astor a salute. "No guards, mate. Just 'air dye and some right good tailor-work."

LeBeau crossed his arms, laughing at Astor's astonished look.

"Newkirk at your service, H-err Astor."

He overemphasises the h, the way he always did when trying to sound 'normal'. "Think I worked a job with you once before." The obviously English Nazi shook Astor's hand heartily.

"Corporal Newkirk?" Astor peered at the other man's face more closely. "I would not recognise you. You look like Count Dracula, all white and black."

Newkirk batted his eyelashes, "Why thank you, kind sir. I think the colour brings out the green in me eyes."

LeBeau elbowed him in the gut, and took over the conversation while Newkirk groaned pathetically. "I am Corporal LeBeau. We were able to make a copy of their list without raising the suspicions of the Gestapo officer. Here it is."

Holding out his hand, the underground member took the paper gratefully. "This is of utmost importance for us. You must give Papa Bear our thanks. If we know who is being watched, we can continue to operate without fear of their arrest."

"You are very welcome, _mon collègue_. Since the Gestapo do not know we have the list, they will most likely believe they have the wrong suspects when your men do nothing more suspicious."

"Maybe," Newkirk grunted out. "But I think those damn Nazis were born suspicious."

LeBeau turned to smile malevolently at his friend, so he was the first one to see the front door of the barn open behind them.

His eyebrows shot up, and Newkirk twisted to see what he was looking at.

"Damn!"

The same curse echoed in his own head as he whipped out his pistol.

Four uniformed Nazis burst in the door. Three of them were wearing the dark grey suits and markings of a second lieutenant, and the fourth was a Gestapo officer.

LeBeau's stomach dropped.

It was _the_ Gestapo officer.


	5. The Gestapo Host a Barn Razing

_This chapter is brought to you on behalf of decongestants and migraine medication. Enjoy! - Thaddeus_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five:<strong>

**The Gestapo Host a Barn Razing**

Gestapo Captain Finck looked none the worse from his morning encounter with Hogan's two men. His coat was still brushed to perfection, the extra ammunition on his shiny leather belt was untarnished. LeBeau had only seen the man in a black and white snapshot, being unable to see through car trunks, but he found himself hoping the man's pale Arian skin was actually a sign of delayed car sickness.

Right now the man appeared disgustingly pleased with himself as he took in the scene before him. "Well, isn't this interesting. If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't believe it. My first day here and I catch a German traitor and two spies, speaking English of all things."

He motioned for his men to fan out, blocking off the way to the front door.

LeBeau glanced towards the back exit.

"Oh no. You don't think I'd be so foolish as to leave the back door open, do you?" Captain Finck sneered. He strolled further into the room, swinging the pistol in his gloved hand back and forth by the grip.

Beside him, LeBeau felt Newkirk deliberately relax, somehow managing to look like holding a pistol was boring him. Then he threw a momentary sharp look at LeBeau, a paradox to his sleepy-eyed appearance that practically screamed 'innocent: not worth your time!' Reassured, LeBeau squared his own shoulders and scowled like only a Frenchman could.

"I don't recognise you, midget, or this German trash, but I do recognise my trusty chauffeur from this morning. I would have thought we had a traitor in our ranks if I hadn't heard him speak in English.

The captain took a step closer to Newkirk, smiling slowly. "I think Major Hochstetter would love to have a conversation with you about your choice of uniform."

Newkirk swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"You leave him alone!" LeBeau demanded.

"Well that's not likely to happen," said Finck. "You will lay down your weapons and come with me, or I'll kill you right here. It's as simple as that."

LeBeau was hard pressed to keep himself from snarling.

"Before we get to all that killin' rot, ow'd you find us?" Newkirk drawled out. "You sat there like a dummy when w-I picked you up this mornin'. Coulda been a Sunday drive with Mum for all you knew."

His arrogant smirk wavered for a moment, but then Gestapo Captain Finck recovered. "Oh that. Would you believe it's coincidence actually? Mother chance has always favoured the Reich. It's safe to come in now!"

The last phrase was directed at the door, and it creaked open to reveal an old man in a worn suit, toting a shotgun. He scowled as soon as he sighted the three Allies.

"This is Herr Biebermeyer." Finck swept his hand out in a grand gesture of introduction. "He lives on the next farm, and has been pestering his local Gestapo about this barn for a number of months. When I arrived in town today, Major Hochstetter's first order for his surveillance patrol was to satisfy this old geezer and get him to shut up."

LeBeau felt his stomach turn at the Nazis' wide grin. "Imagine my surprise when I interrupted this."

"_What are you waiting for?_" The farmer hollered, spittle flying. "_Gut the worthless swine already!_"

LeBeau steadied his pistol, out of the corner of his eye watching Astor wipe a sweaty palm on his pants and then return it to the pistol grip.

On his other side, Newkirk cocked an eyebrow at the farmer. "Since when was a nice pink pig worthless? Unless... ooohh. Jewish, are you?"

If he hadn't been so angry with the look of disgust that crossed Finck's face, LeBeau would have laughed. "I think that is the only explanation, _mon ami_. By the way, have I ever made you _Paupiettes De Porc_?"

Newkirk glanced over at him, keeping his aim on their aggressor. "Don't think so. You'll have to give me a taste later."

"_Oui_, of course. It involves a little bit of peel of orange to add flavour to the-"

"Shut up!" Finck was starting to lose his cool.

"What for?" Newkirk blinked innocently. "You were talking too."

"_Enough of this!_" The farmer shouted. "_Just shoot them already._"

He swung his shotgun around on LeBeau and Astor, but Newkirk already had his pistol out, sending two shots into the old man's chest before he could fire. LeBeau vaulted over the top of a wooden crate, and ducked down in time to miss a spattering of bullets in return.

He peered over the top in time to see Newkirk throw himself behind a bale of hay over by the front door.

Beside him, Astor popped up behind a crate, managing to shoot one of the Nazi soldiers before they too took cover.

"Don't kill them all!" Finck shouted from his position behind an old water barrel. "I need to question them."

In response, LeBeau shot two large chunks out of the barrel near the captain's head.

But the soldiers seemed to have unlimited ammunition and enthusiasm, now that they were actually allowed to use it, and LeBeau could feel the spray of bullets penetrating further and further into the crate he was hiding behind. It wouldn't last very long.

Astor was lying on his stomach only a few metres away, jumping up to shoot off a couple of rounds before he hissed at LeBeau. "I do not have very many bullets. We must do something."

"Two down, three to go, Captain, old pal!" Newkirk hollered from the other side of the room. LeBeau could see the top of his hat, but the Englishman was on the opposite side of the Nazis, with his back to the front door. "I think that makes us even! This is the part where most bullies cut an' run."

Finck's response was an explosion of bullet propelled hay bits, littering the air around Newkirk's hiding spot.

"If we give Pierre enough cover fire, I think he can make it to the door." LeBeau whispered to Astor.

Then they heard a distinct yelp from the haystack by the door, and everything went to hell.

LeBeau peered over the edge of his crate, surprised to see Newkirk slowly standing up, his back to them, and his hands in the air.

"_I heard the gunfire, and I left the truck, __Kapitän._"

Immediately the Frenchman's stomach gave up all pretenses of courage, and metaphorically dropped to the barn floor. A fourth Nazi soldier was standing in the open doorway, holding Newkirk at gunpoint.

Beside him, Astor lowered his pistol.

Captain Finck and his two remaining men crawled out from their hiding places and joined their comrade. "Good job, lieutenant. If they shoot, you can blow that one's head clean off. Understand?"

Newkirk stepped out from behind his haystack, hands still in the air, and Finck grabbed him by the arm, tugging him forward to show Astor and LeBeau. The German's smile was unbearable wide, and LeBeau had to tighten his hands into fists to keep from launching himself at the smug _bâtard_.

"I was going to try and take you all alive, but I think the Gestapo only need one of you swine to get all the information they need, and who better than our interesting imposter here?"

Newkirk had gone white, and LeBeau was just itching to shoot the officer right in the face. Unfortunately he was no Robin Hood, and with a cheap handgun he was just as likely to hit Pierre.

"It's not really necessary, mate." Newkirk choked out. "I'm not that good with details. Couldn't give you much information anyways."

Finck ignored him, roughly pushing the Englishman towards his men. "Take him out to the truck. These two must be almost out of ammunition. Kill them, and then meet me outside."

Cursing, LeBeau had to throw himself to the ground as the air around him exploded under fire. Shattered chips of wood bit into him as the crate was pulverized by bullets.

"No! Stop!" Newkirk screamed over the noise.

"Quit struggling!" LeBeau could barely hear the grunts of the soldiers with bullets whizzing over his head. He realised he was finally going to die, in the middle of a war, on the floor of a barn. His adrenaline was pumping too hard for him to really care, except he knew he didn't want to die to the soundtrack of Pierre's frantic screams.

Suddenly there was a snapping sound, and the gunfire died down.

"Argh! He broke my arm!"

LeBeau turned his head, dirt and slivers of wood biting into his cheek as he stared through the now gaping holes in the crate.

One of the soldiers was doubled over, clutching his arm while the other two gripped Newkirk by both sides. The Englishman was kicking and struggling wildly, thrashing his head back and forth when Finck tried to hold his legs still.

"Fine!" Captain Finck jumped back as Newkirk's knee caught him in the stomach. "Forget those two. We'll torch the place and they'll go up with it."

"No! You can't do that! LeBeau! Louis, you have to shoot them! You have to get away!"

LeBeau scrambled to reach his pistol with one hand, but it had fallen out of his reach. He opened his mouth, trying not to inhale dust. "Hold on, Pierre! We will come get you!"

There was a laugh from Gestapo Captain Finck. "Auf Wiedersehen."

He tried to raise his head above the crate, but a few final bullets made him duck. His last view of Newkirk was his friend's ghost white face, green eyes blown wide in desperation and shock, still writhing frantically in the soldiers' grip.

Then the door slammed shut, and it was silent.

LeBeau jumped to his feet, but Astor grabbed him before he could fling himself at the door.

"We cannot go out that way friend. They will only shoot us."

"I have to get Newkirk back!"

Astor nodded, holding LeBeau by both shoulders. "I understand. But that will not help him at all. If they are going to set the barn on fire, they will watch the entrances so we cannot get out. I have a better way to escape."

Frowning, LeBeau stopped trying to get past the Underground agent. "What do you mean?"

"We have an emergency exit. A tunnel that opens up in the bushes behind the barn-."

They both looked up, and as an odd rushing sound began to fill the background. LeBeau sniffed the air, smelling petrol leaking under the front and back door. "We do not have much time. Where is this tunnel?" He turned to Astor.

The German agent beckoned. "I will show you."

**0 0 0**

LeBeau buried his face in his hands, muffling the sound so Hogan and the others had to lean forward to hear. "Then we took the uniform and the dog-tags from the dead soldier, to make it harder to identify the bodies. By the time we had opened the tunnel entrance it was _très chaud_ and smoky. The fire was spreading. We felt the ground shake when the wall fell down on the exit. There was no way to get out."

Nodding, Hogan finally shook himself back to reality enough to realise there were tears dripping from between the little Frenchman's fingers. He cleared his throat and motioned the others a couple steps away to give LeBeau some space.

"Mm. So Astor, you've been down there since last night, then?"

"Yes sir." The German agent said. "We could hear muffled noises when the barn came down and then when we realised we could not open the entrance, Herr LeBeau started to dig another exit so we could get out. You most probably saw the dirt we displaced in the tunnel. But come morning there was much more noise up above, so we stopped the digging for the day."

Hogan scrubbed at his face, and wondered how many new wrinkles this escapade was going to give him. "So after they set the barn on fire, something happened outside and we don't know what."

Kinch spoke up. "Newkirk could have taken out all his captors and escaped. There's just the right numbers of bodies for that scenario."

"Then where did he go?" Carter asked. "Why didn't he come home to us?"

The two German agents had stayed silent up to this point, still pouring over the list of names that Astor had handed them. But now Herr Wolfe spoke up. "We are very pleased to have this information through the help of your men, Papa Bear. But I think all of us need to know whether there is anyone still alive who can identify Astor and your Frenchman. If this Newkirk is dead, then someone else out there knows about our spies."

"We need more information."

Hogan jumped when a firm voice spoke up at his elbow. LeBeau had wiped his face dry, and was now standing at the edge of their group, his dark eyes burning with determination. "Someone must find out what the Gestapo knows, because we do not have enough information on our own."

"I deliver mail." Herr Vogt raised his hand. "My job often takes me to the Gestapo headquarters. If I just find out whether they have any new prisoners..."

It was still pitch black out, but Hogan realised the time was fast approaching for them to head back to camp. It looked like this whole mess wasn't something they could clean up in one night.

"Okay. Here's what we do," Hogan nodded to Carter. "We can't let them find the tunnel and know you two survived. So Carter will have to rig some explosives so it looks like the foundations gave in. We're going to have to head back to Stalag 13, but it will look too suspicious if LeBeau comes back without Newkirk."

LeBeau swallowed and his eyes started to water again.

"We're going to have to keep pretending you two are sick for a little while longer. LeBeau will stay hidden in town with you, Herr Wolfe, for the time being. Then Herr Vogt is going to head to the Gestapo headquarters this morning. We need more information, and it looks like only they have it."

**0 0 0**

The tight knot of Allies was breaking up, Hogan, Carter and Kinch heading in one direction, LeBeau and Germans in the other. Apart from the soft scuffing of their footprints the night was silent. Ten minutes later two cars pulled out onto the dirt road, one heading back to Stalag 13, and the other heading to Hammelburg.

Then the stretch of road was quiet.

There was no noise and no movement all along the road, nothing from all the empty fields, or the dark farmhouses, nothing from the barns, and nothing from one particular house, just a fifteen minute drive in the opposite direction, down the length of that very same road.

No lights showed from the windows of the house, but it didn't mean no one was awake.

At that very moment, a young man sat on a cot in the back room. He was slowly rocking back and forth, eyes at half mast, but never slipping closed into sleep.

Otto was tired. It was hours past midnight, but he couldn't and wouldn't sleep. Niklas Einstein and his family had left him in the back room once more, unaware that their guest wasn't making use of the carefully made up cot.

Surprisingly, it wasn't hard to stay awake. Otto found the events of the day, the one day he could remember, rattling around his head so violently it was impossible to relax. Once he had dozed off while leaning against bedroom door, but had been thrown back to consciousness almost immediately. It wasn't even intentional any more.

The red bearded Sergeant had spent the afternoon dragging him around the ruins of a burnt out barn, pushing his face into the corpses of several dead men, trying to get him to remember something.

Otto jumped to his feet again, stumbling into a brisk walk the length of the small room. He tapped the door and then returned, settling into a steady pace while he tried to scrub all those contorted bodies from his mind. It hadn't worked. He didn't remember a thing. All those cold empty faces didn't mean anything to him.

It made him feel sick inside.

But mostly it made him feel angry.

Niklas had offered to drive him into Hammelburg in the morning. He was going to the Gestapo Headquarters to meet Major Hochstetter, a man who supposedly knew who the traitors were who killed Otto's patrol last night and beat him within an inch of his life.

So tomorrow morning he would find out what his name was, and what he and the members of his patrol had been up to. Otto wasn't sure if he should be worried, happy, or just scared.

But he did know one thing. Someone had killed his friends last night, and he was going to do everything in his power to help catch them. These traitors had to be stopped, and if this Hochstetter fellow was the one to do it, then Otto was behind him all the way.


	6. Peter and the Wolfgang

_Guess who's going to win a Papa Bear award for worst story updater of all time? Me! Regarding the great hiatus: I'm in the process of losing my own WWII vet right now, but I've recently found enough equilibrium to enjoy Hogan's Heroes again. So expect more story soon. Happy reading! - Thaddeus_

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><p><strong>Chapter Six:<strong>

**Peter and the Wolfgang**

To say Otto was terrified was an understatement.

He was beyond terrified. He was stuck. He was between a rock and a hard place. He was drowning, freaking out and dying. It was a terrible situation where everything was horrible and there were no safe options and no back-up plans and no one to run to or hope in or pray to. There was nothing except himself, and he wasn't even sure who himself was.

"Are you going to get out of the truck, Otto?"

Otto gripped the door handle a little harder and turned to see Niklas Einstein giving him a kindly smile from the driver's seat.

"It is okay, my boy. These are your men, your people. You can trust them. They're not going to hurt you."

And Niklas knew this how? In Otto's experience, your own people were the most likely to hurt you... except he couldn't actually remember why he knew that.

_Enough already with the excuses. Stop being a sissy and get out of the truck._

To add to his problems, sometime in the wee hours of the sleepless night before, he had picked up an annoying voice of reason that bothered and pestered him in a foreign language. Apparently his sub-conscious was tri-lingual.

_Tri-lingual? If that's what you want to call your sub-par grasp of the fre-._

"Ferme ta gueule," Otto hissed under his breath.

Niklas gave him an odd look. "What?"

"Nothing."

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and hopped down onto the pavement below. The cool morning air hit his exposed skin and made him shiver.

"Otto?"

Niklas Einstein was leaning over the passenger's seat to reach for the shivering soldier. He patted him once on the shoulder. "It will be okay. You can always come back and see us if you need anything, or if you want to talk about anything at all. Do you hear me?"

Otto nodded.

"All right. Have a good day then."

The truck rumbled off into the shadowy swirls of dawn in Hammelburg, and Otto watched it till it was out of sight. Then he turned his attention to the building half a block ahead.

The Hammelburg Gestapo headquarters.

_It is huge._

Agreeing internally, Otto shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and walked until he stood at the base of the stone steps up to the building. He eyed the imposing black swastika on the banner above the door. There was a mixture of official looking men in uniform and even more intimidating men in trench-coats passing through the doors in both directions. Everyone had a certain air about them that made the young soldier assume they knew exactly where they were going, it was very important for them to get there, and they had no problem with shooting anyone who got in their way. Otto was glad that none of them spared a mere Second-Lieutenant more than a momentary glance.

He had this strange idea niggling at the back of his mind that authority figures were supposed to be respected, but not necessarily feared. Maybe it was just hopeful thinking, but Otto felt like his commanding officer had been someone he had trusted and looked up to. Of course the man, Captain Finck, was dead now. But maybe there would be other people like that as well.

With a surreptitious look at the men around him he reassured himself that no one was watching, and then crossed his right hand over his heart.

At the head of the stairs the hunched black swastika stayed in place, still resolutely representing authority and inciting none of the swells of patriotism or pride that Sigmund had promised. There was just emptiness in his head.

_Were you expecting the national anthem to suddenly spring to mind?_

Frowning, Otto stuffed his hands deep into his jacket pockets and followed the stream of stiffly suited men up the steps into the Gestapo HQ.

Inside the tiled floors and white walls were relentlessly clean. Hallways sprung out on all sides, and a long counter stood directly across from the door. Otto tried to keep his mouth from dropping open as he took in the noise, the bustle of important looking men and women, the perfectly hung portraits of men with moustaches and men with medals, and the clacking of typewriters.

Tasting a burst of copper in his mouth, Otto realised he had been chewing on his split lip again. He rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth and strode up to the main desk.

"Good morning, sir. I'm here to-"

The man behind the desk raised his hand to cut Otto off. The young soldier blushed as he noticed the receiver set the clerk was holding to his ear.

After a muffled volley of conversation, the clerk put down the radio receiver and gave Otto his attention. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, um. I'm here to see Major Hochstetter. Here are my papers."

He shoved forward the hastily scribbled notice that the red-bearded Sergeant had made him the night before. Apparently it wasn't a good idea to walk around in wartime without identification, let alone without an identity.

"He's down that hall, fourth door on your left. I'll let him know you're coming."

Nodding his thanks, Otto took his papers, heading down the hall and counting the doors until 'Hochstetter, Wolfgang. Major.' in thick curved print confronted his eyes.

Otto loosened his collar a bit, taking a deep breath. He could do this. There was nothing to be afraid of. He was only going to add a little bit more information about himself to what he already knew. It would be nothing worse than filling in a few more blanks. Nobody was going to hurt him, and finding out who he was and what exactly he had been working at wasn't going to make his nightmares worse. In fact, dealing with the evil men who had killed his comrades at the barn might help resolve them.

So he knocked.

**0 0 0**

Gestapo Major Hochstetter had not slept well the night before. Initially he had blamed the lateness of Gestapo Captain Finck's arrival to work Tuesday morning on incompetence. The captain had been quite on time when he arrived from the train station on Monday. Finck had seemed eager to get to work, and his unswerving devotion to clearing out the filth in Hammelburg was gratifying. Hochstetter sent him and his men out that evening on a practice run of a mission, the simple matter of dealing with that stupid old coot who kept driving in from the farmlands to bother him with his conspiracy theories.

He had expected Finck to be in to work early the next morning. But as the time passed, it became more and more unlikely that his lateness was just the result of incompetence. Finally the news came in that Captain Finck and nearly his whole patrol were dead. The special anti-Underground patrol had been a complete washout.

Hochstetter hadn't even gotten a whole day's work out of them.

He had spent the rest of his Tuesday on the phone with Berlin winding himself into a tighter and tighter rage while he tried to buy some time to figure out exactly what had happened. It hadn't contributed well to a restful night.

"Fools!" He pounded his fist down on the desk.

When the Major was upset he didn't sleep well, and when he didn't sleep well his eyes were still sharp and dark in the morning, his hair was still parted and gelled, his uniform spotless and his black coat completely free of hair or dust. He still looked imposing, angry and ridiculously scary for a man of short stature. The only difference was that his temper devolved from short, to practically non-existent.

Right now, one of the office secretaries was currently in the process of using up the last fumes of his patience.

"I understand your frustration sir, but we can't know everything about everyone. These things take time, and..."

There was a quiet knock at the door across from Hochstetter's desk, and the secretary reached back to open it. A young lieutenant slipped in, staring at them both with wide eyes. Hochstetter spared him less than half a glance. Everyone was scared of him. He was Gestapo, after all.

"Shut the door behind you, Lieutenant. I'll just be a minute." The secretary turned back to Hochstetter. "I'm sure we have his name on file, but it might take me a while to find the paper work."

Hochstetter gave up trying to reign in his temper. Jumping to his feet he leaned across the desk, shouting loud enough to fleck the other man with spittle. "Does this look like a situation for time consuming paper work? Get on the phone, get me his name, and do it while the information still might be of some use to us!"

"Fine. Yes, Herr Major." With a rather resentful salute, the office secretary moved to yank the door open and leave. It wasn't a very sudden movement, but the young soldier by the door cringed and stumbled to the side, putting himself directly in the Major's line of sight.

Hochstetter frowned. "Who's this?"

The secretary in the doorway froze and now Otto found himself the centre of attention. Major Wolfgang Hochstetter, according to the nameplate that was now visible, stood up straight, scrutinizing Otto till he was aware of every tear in his uniform, every swollen bruise on his face, and every empty crevice in his head.

Surveying Otto's stripes, Hochstetter stepped out from behind his desk and demanded, "Well? Who is this? He looks familiar."

Shrugging, the office secretary continued his exit. "I don't know. Ask him."

Otto swallowed hard, and held out his papers, feeling any remaining confidence evaporate. Major Hochstetter was only a little shorter than him, but his broad shoulders, and habit of planting his feet wide apart made him look much shorter and somehow more scary for the fact that he packed so much intimidation into such a compact package.

His dark hair was perfectly coifed, his moustache oiled, and his face had not lifted from a dark frown since Otto had entered the office room. The young soldier was struck by the overwhelming idea that he was facing a bad-tempered bull dog in a uniform.

_And I doubt that his bark is worse than his bite. He probably has rabies._

"What's this?" Hochstetter snatched away the papers, scanning them suspiciously. "You're from Finck's patrol? So Sergeant Schneider found the missing lieutenant. Good for him; he's not a complete idiot. What's your name, soldier?"

"M-my name? I d-don't know, sir."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

Otto was gripping his hands behind his back so hard his knuckles started to lose colour. "I have a head injury, sir. Sergeant Schneider wrote it up in those papers. A farmer found me by the side of the road Tuesday morning. I can't remember anything at all, about anything, sir."

Beetle black eyes pinned Otto in place. He could feel his heart thrumming like a wild thing and it almost hurt to stay still and not just run.

Finally Hochstetter looked down at the papers again and took them over to his desk. "I see. Did they have a doctor look you over?"

"The farmer's son was an animal doctor, Major, sir. He gave me a check up."

Hochstetter growled. "We'll have to go by a doctor late to confirm that. I imagine they thought they had killed you. But it doesn't make a lot of difference at this point. If you can't remember anything you're practically useless. I hope you understand how much trouble you're causing, young man. Captain Finck was supposed to do the paperwork to transfer your patrol to his command yesterday. And of course he never got that chance."

"Sir?"

"He was taking your patrol out for a trial run. Finck was going to introduce the team to me when he saw how well you worked together Monday night."

It took Otto a moment to understand the implication, and then his stomach dropped even further. "You never got a chance to meet me, and he never did the paperwork. Are you saying you don't know who I am?"

Hochstetter gave him a nasty smile.

"You don't have my name written down somewhere, or a transfer request, or a picture of me, or just maybe Captain Finck mentioned my name-" Otto could barely even see anything over the overwhelming sensation of blood pounding in his ears. "Or he told you who he was considering for the patrol, or, or – there's got to be somebody who knows me, somebody who saw something-"

"Hey. Lieutenant! Snap out of it."

"No no no no no. This can't be happening. It can't, it can't-it can't-"

Then Hochstetter did the worst possible thing he could have done. He smacked Otto hard, right across the bruise engulfing the soldier's left cheekbone.

For a second Otto was aware of an echoing pain exactly in line with something that had already happen, something he'd already experience, and then everything seemed to flip head over heels as the shock drove home.

"_What's your name, son?" "Can you tell us your name?"_

_ "It looks like someone tried to strangle you." "What the bloody 'ell do you think you're doing!" _

_"You haven't got any dog tags." _

_"He can't remember. Has a head injury." __"Name, rank and serial number..." "We're calling him Otto."_

Reality trickled back, and he found himself on the floor, retching into a wastepaper basket while Hochstetter held him up by the back of his collar. The whole room was swooping around in mix of undulating colours, and Otto could see his hands visibly shaking on the rim of the bin in front of him.

_This is beginning to become a regular occurrence. Is it not?_

Ignoring the snide voice in his head, Otto eased back on his knees and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry about that, sir."

"Are you finished, lieutenant?"

"Yes sir."

Hochstetter let go of his collar and stalked back to his desk. He eyed the kneeling soldier with a mix of annoyance and disgust. "If you think you can keep your stomach contents on the right side of your gut, we'll get on with business. It's true that I don't know exactly who you are. You were probably stationed locally, since I'm sure I've seen you around before. But I'm going to have to send out a mass inquiry to find out who recently put in a request for transfer and hasn't shown up for duty the last two days. Then we can cross-reference those names with the dog-tags of your dead team members, and figure out who you are."

Otto nodded hesitantly. "And they'll be a file with my name, my family, my home?"

Waving his hand in dismissal, Hochstetter agreed. "Yes, yes. They'll have a photo and all your information. It will take a few days to track down, but they'll find it. However that's all secondary."

"To what?"

"The hunt for the filthy Underground, of course! I finally have someone who's come face to face with them and survived! You may even have seen Papa Bear. We'll have to see a doctor about your head, and if that doesn't work I'll talk to my superiors about some of the more classified means of head-cracking. But in the meantime we'll take another approach. If I have to drag you to see every single suspected Underground member in Germany till you remember something, then that's what I'll do."

Hochstetter gave Otto a predatory grin. "Now get out of my office and go clean up. I have to make some phone calls. If I know Papa Bear, he's up to his ears in this business. There is no way this time that incompetent prison camp Kommandant can come with an alibi for Hogan this time."

Ignoring the babble of nonsense, Otto stumbled out of the office and pulled the door shut securely behind him. He paused, leaning on the door, trying to calm his racing heart. His body kept freaking out about things his mind wasn't willing to let him in on. Otto let out a huff of air and raised a hand to his eyes.

His hands were still shaking.

With a final roll of his aching shoulders, Otto pushed off from the door and headed down the hall.


	7. Paving the Road with Good Intentions

_Remember Herr Vogt, Wolfe, and Astor? Me neither. They're from Chapter 4 if you need a quick reminder!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven:<strong>

**Paving the Road with Good Intentions**

Vogt couldn't help feeling nervous as he slipped past the secretaries in the main foyer of the Hammelburg Gestapo HQ. As a member of the German underground resistance he had reason to be afraid. But he had been in the imposing building many times before for legitimate reasons: to deliver messages and mail to the various agents within. A long time ago, the job had been a source of pride for the young man, but as the Nazi party's platform became clearer, its impact on his own life opened his eyes to the insanity surrounding him.

Herr Vogt was 32, prime age to fight for the Third Reich, but when he had joined all his friends to volunteer, he discovered that according to the beloved Führer, he was less than human, a degenerate in disguise.

Long-legged, thin-faced Vogt was flatfooted. It wasn't anything that he had really noticed before, except that he had some difficulty running, and couldn't walk or carry loads for a long time. But apparently the physical disability meant he was wrong, bad, not worth a part in Germany's glorious future.

The arbitrariness of this decision sent Vogt running to re-examine some of the other Nazi ideology that he had taken for granted. His search had eventually led him to the German underground and this international fight to defeat the growing force of lies and hate that Nazism had become.

Vogt pulled his beige cap a little lower on his head, and tried to look as detached and impassive as he usually did. He wasn't known for great expressions of emotion, but at the moment he felt like bursting into tears of stress. Although passersby gave him a quick nod of recognition and then promptly forgot the mailman, he still felt like they might somehow notice he wasn't up to his usual message delivery. Twisting his long narrow fingers together inside his coat pockets, Vogt turned the corner into one of the long outer hallways that spidered out from the foyer.

Somewhere in the guts of the building below him were the cells for prisoner interrogation, but he had no hope of making it that far into enemy territory. The young Underground member was heading for a different spot. Just up the hall was a small office of records where he knew the prisoner intake forms were kept. If the Gestapo had captured this Corporal Peter Newkirk of Papa Bear's, then the information would be there.

He passed a couple men in uniform in the hall, but the information desk in the alcove up ahead was empty. Vogt let the tension ease a little from his shoulders. He had timed his visit to coincide with the office assistant's coffee break. The office was a mere nook in the wall of the hallway, but it wasn't visible from either end of the long hall, so Vogt felt a little safer when he stepped out of everyone's view.

"Now, where are you, my little list?" Vogt muttered under his breath, running a slender finger over the forms and paperwork spread out on the desk. Behind the desk were several charts and lists, but none of them seemed to cover the information he needed. Rubbing a hand over his face, Vogt tried to remember the times he had delivered a message to this office. Where had he seen the prisoner intake list?

Surely it hadn't been in one of the filing cabinets against the wall? Vogt turned to stare at the metallic grey cabinets. The small keyhole in the top of each drawer taunted him.

"Now I'm no expert, but I think I'd define what you're doing as sneaking."

Vogt jumped so hard he almost swallowed his own tongue. He swung around to discover a uniformed officer leaning across the front of the desk not three feet from his face.

"Oh-!"

At his inarticulate answer, the officer stepped back, crossing his arms and looking Vogt over with his head cocked to one side. "I'll take that as agreement you're not where you're supposed to be. Why were you going through those papers?"

Feeling cold terror grip his innards, Vogt straightened his jacket, reaching for all the excuses he had created beforehand.

"You surprised me, Herr Lieutenant. I didn't hear you come up behind me. I'm just delivering mail here."

"Really." The officer shoved his hands deep in his pockets and just stared at him. Vogt felt the hair on the back of his neck as he returned the other man's stare.

The man's eyes were striking: a hooded blue-green currently drowning in dark pools of bruising. The rest of his skin was an unhealthy white, and it looked like he had just barely survived a serious brawl. He was frowning, but Vogt thought he could detect hesitation in the officer's hooded eyes. He looked dangerous. But he didn't look cold and emotionless.

"Ar-are you okay?"

"What?"

Vogt gestured hesitantly at the other man's stance. "You just look rather ill. Are you alright?"

"Am I... are you trying to distract me?"

The German mailman watched his accuser's eyes tighten in anger. "No! That wasn't what I meant. I just thought maybe you could use some water, or medication, or I should call somebody..."

Putting a hand back on the desk for balance, the officer let out a long huff of air. "I'm fine. I'm going to be fine. What were you doing with those papers? Stuff in this building is important. You can't just mess around with it."

"I do deliver mail here. You can check at the desk." Vogt offered.

"Never mind that. I don't know any of them. I'm new here. Probably." He ignored Vogt's raised eyebrow and continued. "I know what sneaky looks like so you'd better tell me what you're up to before I call someone with a little less patience. I don't know whose desk this is, but I'm sure Major Hochstetter up the hall would love to explain what it's for, and who exactly belongs here."

"Wait!" Vogt couldn't keep the fear from his voice. "I wasn't doing anything wrong. Nothing really bad. I just needed some information."

"Information that you're not supposed to have?"

There seemed to be a hint of humour showing in the officer's eyes: humour and exhaustion. But once again there was no sign of cold hatred or cruelty.

Vogt took the plunge.

"I have this friend and his brother has gone missing. He didn't come home Monday night and we thought just possibly he could have gotten into trouble with the Gestapo. I promised my friend I'd check to see if anyone had been arrested in the last three days. It might be nothing, but we just need to be sure. We need to know if he's okay."

The other man started drumming a staccato rhythm on the desktop. Watching the officer's face, Vogt made sure to keep eye contact.

"I just want to know if there are any prisoners right now. That's all. He's probably just in some minor trouble, but my friend needs to know if his brother is safe."

The officer looked at him with an infinitely weary expression. His eyes drooped for a moment, and then he looked back at Vogt. "What's his name?"

"His name?"

"Your friend's brother. What's his name?"

"I- I'm not sure if I should... His name is Pieter."

"Pieter. Pie-ter. Pieter." He ran the strange name over his tongue while Vogt watched nervously. Finally the soldier straightened up. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'll help you."

Walking around the desk, he reached past Vogt and started sorting things through the items on the desk rapidly before he found two pens that he began to dismantle with nimble fingers.

"Do you live near here?" he asked without looking up.

"Yes. Hammelburg's been my home for years."

"Travelled much?"

Vogt leaned forward to watch as the officer inserted couple pieces of the pens into the filing cabinet locks, and twisted them around. "No. Well, I've never been outside the Fatherland."

The lock sprung, and the other man yanked open the drawer, flipping through the file titles. "So how many languages do you speak, then?"

Brow creasing deeply, Vogt stared at the officer's back. "One. I can speak a little bit of English. But it's very very poor. Why do you ask?"

Shoving the drawer closed, he concentrated on the next lock. "I was just wondering how common it is to speak other languages, like English, and, and other languages."

Click.

The second lock disengaged even faster than the first, and Vogt found himself questioning what part of the army this lieutenant was in. How did he learn to pick locks with so much speed?

"Found it! Prisoner Intake Chart for the second week of May... blah blah... They don't use names here: just numbers. But there's nobody on here. Nobody was admitted this week."

Vogt reached for the file. "Are you sure? There's really nobody they found? Nobody they arrested? Not even secretly?"

"I'm sure. You can see here where people were arrested in past weeks. But nobody at all this week. I'm sorry, but he's not here."

Not there. Corporal Newkirk wasn't there. Hochstetter didn't have him. The Gestapo didn't have him. But then who did? Where was he? What was he going to tell Papa Bear? What were they going to tell the little French corporal?

Giving a tired smile, the officer slipped the file back into place and relocked the filing cabinet. Tipping his head back he thrust a hand up at Vogt.

"I hope he turns up okay. You're going to keep looking, right?"

Vogt nodded and shook his hand briefly. "We'll find him. Thank you so much for the help."

Hooded blue-green eyes stared sadly back. "I'm glad that someone cares enough to look. Good luck with the rest of your search."

Vogt paused before leaving, almost wanting to know more about this unexpected Good Samaritan. Why did he look so unravelled? Maybe there was some way he could help...

But then he quickened his pace, rapidly leaving the centre of Nazism behind him. It was better that neither of them had more details to get the other in trouble.

**0 0 0**

Otto sat on the edge of the empty desk until the secretary returned and shooed him away. Then he wandered back towards Hochstetter's office, just in time to meet the major on his way out.

"There you are," Hochstetter barked. "That incompetent fool of a Kommandant says all of his prisoners are accounted for, so we've got to go looking for evidence somewhere else."

He gave Otto a sharp look, making sure the lieutenant had fallen into place behind him. Hochstetter was pleased to see his insubordinate was keeping exactly two steps behind. Nobody wanted an arrogant up-start for an underling.

"I was able to get the name of the barn's owner. He's a respected friend of the General, so we will have to tread carefully, but it's possible that he was aware there were underground meetings on one of his properties. If so, we'll drag everyone else's names out of him. I want you there to see if anything jogs your memory."

Otto followed Hochstetter to his staff car outside, followed him to collect some backup, and then tried to follow his conversation as much as possible. He felt completely out of depth, and not a small bit terrified, but he sensed a familiar personality in Major Hochstetter, and that made things a little better. It was the personality of someone who expected to be respected and obeyed. Everyone else was below him, but he was not unnecessarily cruel to his followers if those two precepts were followed quickly and consistently.

For whatever reason, Otto recognized the roles and found he could fall into the subservient position quickly. It wasn't fun, and it made the snarky voice in his head absolutely irate, but he knew what was expected of him. He wasn't incompetent, so he was safe.

They pulled up to a stately old house pressed between shops and a bakery, a car of foot soldiers behind them. Otto trailed Hochstetter up to the door and waited on the front stoop patiently.

Herr Metzger opened the door, looking surprised, but not overly concerned. Otto found a wan smile tugging at his own features as he took in the old man's bushy white beard, sprawling eyebrows, and his sharp blue eyes. The barn owner reminded him of Father Christmas. Or... Santa Klaus?

Otto shook his head, trying to rid himself of the English vocabulary that was increasingly pressing to the forefront of his mind as he realised it came more easily than German

"Come in. Is there something I can help you with, Herr Major?"

Strolling into the main room of the house, Hochstetter looked around. "I believe you already know what I'm here for, Herr Metzger. We have reason to believe that an old property of yours on the outskirts of town has been used as a meeting place for traitors of Germany."

Otto stayed to the back of the room, watching the old man's face for a reaction. His beard did a good job of covering up any twitches or small quirks of the mouth, but he didn't seem too shaken by the accusation.

"One of my properties? What do you mean by this, Herr Major? I have only farmland outside of Hammelburg. Did you discover squatters on my land?"

Hochstetter practically growled with suppressed anger. "Your barn! Are you telling me you didn't know the Underground resistance has been holding meetings there? Did they just stumble upon the place without your knowledge, or are you lying to a member of the Fuhrer's secret police?

"I would not lie to you," Herr Metzger said, refusing to lose his calm. "The only barn I own has not been used in months. I haven't even been out to see it this year. If I knew enemies of the Fatherland were using it, I would have called the Gestapo myself!"

"Is that so?" Hochstetter sneered.

Herr Metzger waved an arm at the room around them. "Yes it is. I have nothing to hide. Your men can look around my house. They won't find anything to connect me to those traitors."

Otto drew even further to the back of the room. He didn't want to invade the house of an elderly man, and Hochstetter's raised voice was making his head pound.

"We will search your house, Herr Metzger! My men will search every corner! And if there is one scrap of evidence that you are a conspirator, I will see that you are shot."

**0 0 0**

As Hochstetter marched out of the house to collect all his foot soldiers from Herr Metzger's front lawn and proceed with a search, he was completely unaware of three pairs of eyes watching him from a little black Volkswagen parked a ways down the street.

"Is that Hochstetter?" LeBeau leaned forward between the two front seats and squinted.

"You promised you would stay low, Herr LeBeau. It is dangerous enough for you to leave the safehouse." Wolfe said for the umpteenth time.

LeBeau dropped back into the rear seat, scowling. "We're too far away to see anything clearly. We should have brought binoculars. Newkirk could be doing a jig on Hochstetter's head and we would not even know."

Vogt, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of the car, frowned. "I do not see why he would be doing a jig at all."

LeBeau gave him a look that could have melted lead.

"Never mind." The mailman turned back to look out the front window.

There was a sharp rap on the metal of the side door, and LeBeau opened it to let Herr Astor into the backseat beside him. The German smiled at Wolfe, Vogt and LeBeau and wiped a bead of sweat from his thick walrus moustache.

"I spoke to Metzger and told him what happened at the barn. He is certain Hochstetter wouldn't dare arrest him. The Gestapo has no evidence Herr Metzger knew we were using the barn. As long as they don't find his illegal radio, he will be safe."

"And you told him about Newkirk?" LeBeau prompted.

Astor nodded. "Yes. He promised to keep an eye out and radio us if he hears anything that could help us find your friend. I just made it out the backdoor before those soldiers arrived. Is it Hochstetter himself?"

In the driver's spot, the oldest member of their group shrugged. "We think so. I don't want to get close enough that he could recognise us. Do you think we should wait and see if they dare arrest Herr Metzger?"

"Does this Metzger even know what Newkirk looks like?" LeBeau said. "What if Newkirk was hurt, or sick and no one even recognized him? What if he went to another one of your agents for help and they turned him away? What if they never let us know?"

"Herr LeBeau, it is alright." Wolfe said. "Herr Metzger has worked with Corporal Newkirk before. We all have."

Here Vogt raised his hand to disagree, but then thought better of it. It wasn't important to point out that he himself had never met the Englander before.

Wolfe continued, "It is dangerous for you to be out in the town with us when your Kommandant thinks you are elsewhere. We know the Gestapo don't have your friend. We allowed you to come with us while we checked the morgue and the hospital for him. Now allow others to continue the task of looking for him. When we are sure Herr Metzger is not in trouble, we will return to the safehouse, and you must stay out of sight."

LeBeau folded his arms across his chest and didn't respond. The most polite thing he could think to say was still too rude for the present company. Newkirk would have appreciated it. But he wasn't there. He didn't seem to be anywhere.

**0 0 0**

"You may eat dinner with the general every week, but that will not protect you if my men find what they are looking for!" Hochstetter was still raging.

"I assure you I wouldn't think of using my social position to hide such indiscretion."

Otto peered out the window of the sitting room. When they had first driven up to the house there had been a little black car parked up the road with at least three heads visible through the windshield. Now a quarter hour later, the car was still there. Why was a car full of men just sitting at the side of the street?

_Paranoid much, mon ami?_

He definitely was feeling paranoid. It seemed to him that Herr Metzger had begun to watch him carefully as well. Whenever he moved the old man's eyes tracked him with a look of... confusion? Anger? Recognition?

_If he knew you, he would say something, wouldn't he?_

Turning away from the window, Otto looked around the room with interest. The foot soldiers had moved their search upstairs, but Herr Metzger stayed in the sitting room. He wasn't concerned with them discovering secrets upstairs, or he would have followed and watched the proceedings.

Otto took a better look at the room. Here was an old man with some money. The furniture was good quality and old enough to even be part of some type of inheritance. From his experience, a room like this also came with valuable trinkets or ornaments around, and yet there were none.

So if they were hidden, the old man was secretive and might hide other stuff. Where would he hide his valuables?

His green eyes swept along the mantelpiece, the book shelves and the piano top. They had all been dusted recently, but Otto could catch the occasional well of dust in a corner or curve of the wood. It was the same with the few simple ornaments; whoever did the cleaning did a very un-thorough job of it.

Smiling to himself, Otto lifted a book from the shelf by the window. As he had expected, there was a build up of dust at the front of the book. No one had lifted it to clean underneath.

There was just one item in the room that stuck out to his sharp eyes. One item that was regularly picked up, and consequently, had no rim of dust at its base.

Hochstetter and Herr Metzger paused in their conversation to watch the silent member of their drama stride over to the faded flower print on the mantle top and lift it off the mantle and away from the wall.

"What do you think you're doing?"

There was nothing peculiar about the wall or the mantle underneath. Otto set the picture down on the floor and stood on the tips of his toes, running his hand along the join between the wall and the mantle.

Hochstetter frowned, threatened by his underling's lack of response. "Lieutenant! Answer me. What are you doing?"

"This isn't necessary..." Metzger reached out a wrinkled hand, his blue eyes fixed on Otto. "Young man, they've already searched here. You don't need to-"

But Otto wasn't listening with his ears anymore. He was completely focussed on what his hands were telling him. Dexterously, Otto tucked his fingers into a spot in the join where the grout was missing.

"This is a Jenson lock," he commented, twisting his hand until one finger disappeared in the hole. His other hand scrabbled on the underside of the mantle, searching for a matching gap.

"You have to balance the weight-" Click

"between two pressure points-" There was an odd grinding noise.

"to release the lock."

A panel toppled off the wall into Otto's waiting hands. "Like that."


	8. A Better Safe than Sorry

_I'm back! I probably should have warned everyone ahead of time that I was taking off to gallivant around Eastern Canada visiting relatives. Oops. Sorry. _

_Reader Warning: this chapter contains icky Nazi ideology._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight:<strong>

**A Better Safe than Sorry**

Otto turned to the rest of the room, a real smile breaking across his face for the first time in days. He held up the panel like a prize. "See? It's a lovely piece of work, this safe. The quality of the-"

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and Otto found himself ripped away from the safe and shoved into the middle of the room, completely disregarded by the major on his way to the safe.

"Aha! I knew it! I was right!"

"What are you-?" Otto struggled to regain his balance, and was surprised when Herr Metzger caught him with a strong arm. The older man gave him a solemn look, and released his arm as soon as Otto found his feet.

Now the room seemed to be full of noise and movement as the other soldiers came tramping back down the stairs from their useless search and the guards from the front door surged forward to see what had been discovered.

Hochstetter had taken the young soldier's place at the mantle, standing on tiptoe to examine the contents of the safe. "Yes! An illegal two-way radio. So much for your protestations of innocence, Herr Metzger: it seems that you are involved in the underground after all!"

Wide eyed, Otto turned to look at the old man beside him. He had been so focussed on the safe he hadn't thought of the implications. This here was one of their national traitors? He was one of the men that had killed his friends and almost beaten him to death?

The blue eyes under the bushy white brows no longer sparkled with humour. Herr Metzger just looked sad. Glancing at Hochstetter, whose attention was focussed on the radio, the old man grabbed Otto's arm and pulled him close. "Why are you doing this, Newkirk?" He whispered harshly. "Why are you helping _him_?"

"Newkirk? I- " Suddenly terrified, Otto tried to rip his arm away, but Metzger's grip was like iron around his biceps.

In the same moment Hochstetter turned around, snarling.

"What do you think you're doing! Don't touch my lieutenant."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Otto kept backing up, desperately trying to separate himself from the old man. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm so sorry."

"I know who you are!" Metzger insisted.

"No! I'm just, I'm not - I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

His head hurt like lighting was streaking across his mind, and he had seen the safe and it was beautiful and all his fingers wanted to do was open it and see how it worked and see what was inside, but now he had just sentenced an old man to be shot, and the old man had been kind, but he was bad, he was evil, and Hochstetter was good and he was right, but he was so violent and terrifying and nothing made sense and he was so tired and so scared.

The other soldiers pulled Metzger off Otto, who would have kept apologizing if he wasn't now shaking too hard to speak. Major Hochstetter grabbed him by his collar and dragged Otto from the circle of soldiers now holding Herr Metzger.

"Did you think your men had succeeded in killing him?" Hochstetter crowed. "Well just you wait until we get his memory back, Metzger. He'll identify all your men and I'll have every single one of them shot!"

Metzger's blue eyes snapped to Otto, something like understanding and empathy lighting up his face.

"At least let me set my things in order, Hochstetter," he demanded. "Let me make one call to tell my friends goodbye. You can listen in on the whole thing. I won't make trouble. Just one call."

Hochstetter discarded Otto at the back of the room and stalked forward to sneer in the old man's face. "And let you give some hidden message to the Underground? Not a chance. I'm taking you directly to Gestapo headquarters. And you're not going anywhere near my lieutenant either."

Otto bit his lip, feeling guilt swelling inside as he watched the soldiers drag Herr Metzger from his house.

He really hadn't meant to hurt anyone.

He hadn't.

"I knew there was some reason I brought you along with me." Hochstetter grinned, clapping Otto on the back roughly. "This anti-Underground patrol won't be a complete washout at all."

Otto flinched and followed meekly behind as Hochstetter marched out to his staff car. He sat as far away from Hochstetter as he could in the small vehicle, but it didn't make him feel any better.

A flash of movement caught his eye as they pulled away from the house.

It was the little black car up the street. All four heads had ducked down and disappeared as they drove past.

_I have changed my mind. Maybe you are not so paranoid after all._

Otto turned his face away from the window.

He wasn't going to start any more trouble or unearth any more secrets today.

**0 0 0**

They drove back to the Gestapo headquarters, and Otto watched from a distance as they dragged Herr Metzger through the building to the lockup.

He had helped capture a traitorous member of the underground. That must mean he was a good German citizen.

But why was he hiding so many aspects of himself?

Everyone was surprised when he opened the safe. So did that mean most people didn't know how to crack a safe?

Why were so many aspects of his appearance changed?

Had he been some sort of spy before? Maybe he had pretended to be an Underground member, and that's why Herr Metzger was angry at him.

By why did he think and dream in English? Had he spent time abroad?

And was that a bad thing? Was it safe to ask Hochstetter about all the little things that had been bothering him?

_You are leaving out something important. Why did Herr Metzger call you Newkirk?_

He didn't want to think about that name.

_Are you a coward now? _

Otto cursed under his breath. He didn't want to think about that name.

_Newkirk, mon ami. He called you Newkirk._

He didn't want to think about that name. He wouldn't think about that name. He wouldn't think about the flames, and the screaming, and the rough fists and LeB-

"I want you back here at fourteen hundred hours."

Otto skidded to a stop, almost smacking into Hochstetter's back as the Major stopped at the entrance to his office.

Hochstetter narrowed his eyes and gave Otto a once over before continuing. "They'll be a doctor here to look at your head. Don't be late. And clean yourself up a bit. You might be some sort of trained agent with lock-picking skills, but you look like a reject from the Hitler Youth."

Apparently that was an insult, but Otto just nodded. He was kind of hoping that the Major would show him where he was allowed to eat lunch. The last few days nothing had sat very well on his stomach, and the weary, rattled feeling in his limbs was getting stronger as the hours wore on. But apparently feeding his underling wasn't on Hochstetter's To Do list, because Otto barely had time to jump out of the way before the Gestapo Major slammed the office door in his face.

_ He may be scary, but at least he has manners._

Letting out a huff of air, Otto considered his options.

For a second he entertained the possibility of sneaking down to the cells downstairs to see if he could speak to Herr Metzger. But it seemed very risky, so he gave up that notion.

He had a couple few hours, so he headed out the front door instead.

**0 0 0**

Across the town, in a small German apartment building, an argument was taking place.

"You are out of your mind, Colonel! _Tu es idiots?_ You can't let them do that!"

Herr Wolfe reached across his dining room table, trying to regain the radio mike from the irate little Frenchman. "Herr LeBeau, calm yourself. Everyone is concerned for your Englander friend."

LeBeau ignored him. "Colonel Hogan, if we tell Klink that Newkirk died in the hospital then he can't come back to the camp when we find him. They will ship him off to London, or somewhere else. But he has to come back. You understand? You can't let that happen!"

Around the small dining room Herr Astor, Wolfe and Vogt all winced as Colonel Hogan's response bounced around the roomy in tinny airwaves.

"_I've already thought of that, LeBeau. Now calm down before I order Herr Wolfe to lock you in his basement for a time out._"

LeBeau let out an angry huff of air, but relinquished the microphone to Herr Wolfe's control.

"_London is concerned about Klink getting suspicious. It was Monday when you signed into the hospital and it's already Wednesday. They want you back at the camp and Newkirk declared dead by tomorrow night._"

"Colonel!" LeBeau jumped to his feet.

"_But, if you'd listen for a moment, LeBeau, I convinced them to give us till Friday night. Five days is a reasonable amount of time to be under quarantine. Dr Rosenthal has been giving daily 'updates' on how you two are doing. To string Klink along, we'll bring you back to camp tomorrow night and tell him Newkirk's almost better. That gives you one more day to search for him, LeBeau._"

LeBeau leaned over the table, crowding into Herr Wolfe's personal space to better reach the microphone. "I will find him, _mon Colonel_. _Vraiment_. _Je le jure._"

"Alrighty then. Sure, LeBeau."

Moving across the room, Herr Astor raised his voice to be heard over the radio. "What about the barn owner? What did London have to say about Herr Metzger when you told them he was captured?"

"_That's going to be a little tricky. They want him broken out of Gestapo HQ. They'll send a sub to pick him up and take him safely to England, but we've got to get him out first._"

"What about that man of yours that picks locks? If you send him over maybe I could get him inside the building." Herr Vogt suggested.

"That man is Newkirk." LeBeau said. "He is our sticky-finger lock pick."

"_Yeah. Not exactly an option right now. I can have men ready to ferry Metzger to the submarine, pardon the pun, but I can't break him out of the HQ_."

At the head of the table, Wolfe had been stroking his bristly grey beard, trying to come up with some other contacts that would help them pull off this jail break. "Vogt. You deliver mail to the headquarters all the time. Is there anyone you can think of who might be sympathetic to Herr Metzger's plight? He's quite an old man, and very well respected in the town. There might be someone willing to overlook one small indiscretion on his part, in light of all that he's done with the rest of his life."

"I don't think-"

The youngest member of the Underground started to protest, and then something occurred to him. He turned to the rest of the men at the table.

"Actually. I might just know somebody."

"_Someone who can get Herr Metzger out of the Gestapo HQ?_"

"Yes. A young lieutenant I just met today. But I think, I'm pretty sure... I could convince him to help Herr Metzger escape."

"_Sounds like a plan, then._" Hogan's voice rattled over the airwaves.

**0 0 0**

Otto jogged down the streets of Hammelburg, avoiding cars and pedestrians until he could see the small lunch room where Sigmund had suggested he meet them if he was free for lunch. Pushing the door open he saw Berta's blond curls over the back of one of the booths, and Sigmund waved from across the table.

Berta gave him a huge smile, and Otto felt something settle inside his stomach. He was safe here.

"Otto! We're so glad you could get away for lunch. How did it go? Did you find out your name? Do you remember anything new?"

Feeling heat rise to his cheeks, Otto slipped into the booth beside Berta. Sigmund reached across the table to ruffle his hair with a grin. Otto ducked his head, and tried to straighten his hair with his fingers.

"I met the Gestapo officer who ran my patrol… group… thing. But my commanding officer hadn't done his paperwork yet, so they don't know exactly who I am. It's not on any records. But they are going to find out. They have to wait for reports on transfer requests to come in."

"Well that's progress." Sigmund pointed out. "Who are you working for?"

"A Major Wolfgang Hochsitter."

"You mean Hochstetter? Of the Gestapo?" Sigmund asked

Otto nodded, reaching for a napkin to give his hands something to do. "Yeah. He's very, um, important, I think. Everything he does is very important."

"Well of course it is."

Berta looked across at her cousin, and then turned to Otto. "Is that your way of saying you're scared of him?"

Otto twisted the napkin around his fingers. "Scared? I'm not scared of him. He's just... intimidating, and I don't know if I can do a good job of working with him because I don't even know what I'm capable of."

"You'll be fine." Sigmund said. "You're a survivor, and they must have chosen you for this patrol for a reason. Don't worry about anything more than doing your best."

"I guess."

Berta elbowed him playfully. "Let's get some food in you, and stop talking about the war. How about Borsht? Do you like cabbage soup?"

"Maybe?"

"Borsht it is, then."

When the meal came Berta changed the topic of conversation to Berlin, and how much she wanted to travel and see the big city. She even wanted to go to another city called Paris, which was occupied by their men, but apparently was full of a less refined kind of people. Sigmund called them frogs, which Otto had mistakenly thought was a type of animal, but Berta seemed to be enamoured of their fashion.

Twirling his soup spoon, Otto squinted down into his bowl. "I don't understand how we know we're better than them."

"Do you know what the word 'Aryan' means, Otto?" Sigmund asked.

"_Arrogante, raciste, Nazi insanité_."

"What?!" Berta and Sigmund both sputtered at the same time.

Apparently his inner voice was rude.

Although he was cursing internally, in English and German, Otto found his face automatically falling into a wide-eyed look of innocence, mouth slightly open with his green eyes as big as headlights. He was struck by a memory of a smaller, dirtier version of himself sitting in front of a cracked mirror practicing. Make eye contact, maintain eye contact, blink slightly more often than necessary, wait till recipient of look blinks, then look down at shoes or hands.

"Sorry. Is that rude? I just remember hearing someone say that."

Berta grabbed her napkin and tried to get a coughing fit under control.

"You probably shouldn't repeat things in other languages, Otto. Especially if you don't know what they mean," said Sigmund.

"I didn't mean to say something bad. I won't do it again."

Sigmund reached forward to pat Otto's shoulder. "It's alright. You don't know any better."

Feeling his cheeks flush with colour, Otto steered the subject away from himself, and what he did and didn't know. "So explain to me what 'Aryan' really is."

"Well the world works like this, Otto. Humans are divided into three racial groups. There are the creators of culture: the pure race that's capable of higher thought and deeds. We're the Aryan people. Then there are the bearers of culture: the people groups that can imitate us, but aren't capable on their own. Last of all there are some races that do nothing but destroy culture. Like Jews, Gypsies and Negroes."

Otto's brow creased as he leaned forward. "I don't understand."

"Think of them as a disease. Like vermin. You know what a rat is, don't you?"

"Yes," the young soldier responded.

"Everywhere they live they contaminate the culture around them. It's a similar concept."

Trying to follow Sigmund's logic, Otto nodded slowly. "So we, the Aryan people, we're like the clean-up crew for the whole world?"

Sigmund beamed. "Yes. Exactly like that. So you see why our cause is so important."

Somewhere deep inside, the idea felt wrong. He knew what it felt like when someone said you were worthless and dirty just because of where you were born. At least he was pretty sure he knew. He had an idea that it felt horrible. And he didn't want anyone else to feel like that.

"I guess I'm just nervous about the whole war." Otto mumbled. He grabbed another napkin and began twisting it into a tight knot. "About what will happen when I find out who I am. I almost don't want to know.

This statement seemed to come as a complete surprise to Sigmund, but Berta laid a sympathetic hand on his arm.

Sigmund broke the silence. "Don't you want to step up into your job as a lieutenant? You must be looking forward to working with Hochstetter and the Gestapo. What are you worried about?"

Berta pulled a water jug over to Otto's cup and filled it up. "We know that you don't have any other friends and family right now to talk to Otto. It's okay. You can tell us what has you so upset."

"We won't be upset or offended." Sigmund assured him. "It's alright."

Otto regarded them with solemn green eyes. "I just - I think I lost someone. I think… I lost them at the barn, and I'm afraid to find out who it was."

With a sigh, Sigmund set down his spoon and pushed the half finished bowl of soup away from him. He gave Otto a long look and then spoke. "War isn't always easy. We've all been affected by it; lost friends and family, lost opportunities. But we are part of something special here. War is the ultimate form of human existence. Don't you see?"

Sigmund gestured with his hands as he spoke. "Creativity, discipline, concern for the greater good, productivity and self-sacrifice. War is all about higher living. It's about all the aspects of a pure culture coming together to strive for greatness. When each one of us does our part we become a piece of the great War Machine. You have a duty. We all do. Even those who die along the way are really just achieving greater glory. They die in the name of the best cause life can provide. No one who fights for the Third Reich dies in vain, Otto."

Otto let the words wash over him as Sigmund continued to talk about the glories of the war machine and the duty of the master race to fight for the national interest. It sounded amazing, and it was such a novelty to be told he was worthwhile just as he was.

When the waitress came to take away their dirty dishes Berta's hand wandered over to grasp Otto's. He tugged it up onto the table top, but she didn't seem inclined to let go. Berta ran her thumb across his scabbed knuckles as she spoke.

"Maybe you should come back to the farm with us, Otto. Maybe you've done enough already."

"Berta-"

She cut off her cousin's response. "He's already fought for the war, Sigmund. He's lost his memory, and his friends. Not everybody has to give up their life. The Major might let him take a simple job as a guard or something. He doesn't have to try to get involved in such a dangerous line of work. Anything would be better than working with the Gestapo!"

"I don't mind."

"But you could be sent away, or get caught up in the party and change like Sig-"

"Berta!"

The two younger adults went quiet.

"Otto has his place in this war, just like I do, and you do. If you have any respect for the Fuhrer you'll stop talking and thinking like that."

Berta looked properly ashamed. She let go of Otto's hand.

"I'm sorry. I just want you to be safe."

Otto scrounged up an impish grin. "Don't worry. I'm sure I'll be fine. Haven't I already proven myself to be practically indestructible?"


	9. The Metzger of a Man

_This chapter is dedicated to all the ridiculously awesome people who sent me lovely messages and reviews in my too-long absence. Now I just have to see if I remember how to open my inbox._

**Chapter Nine:**

**The Metzger of a Man**

It was mid-evening before Hochstetter emerged from his files of potential Underground members and realised he had forgotten about that amnesiac kid and probably missed their appointment with the doctor. Fortunately the doctor had discovered Otto patiently standing outside Hochstetter's office at 1400 hours just as requested, and had proceeded with the check-up.

What he concluded was not at all to the Gestapo officer's liking.

Major Hochstetter paced the length of his office, his brows pressed so hard together they were threatening to merge into a uni-brow.

This was his chance to redeem himself and save his anti-Underground project. Otto had obviously seen the traitorous spies face to face, and Hochstetter was determined to get their identities from him if he had to beat them out of Otto himself.

Standing beside the desk, the doctor spread out his notes and eyed Hochstetter over the top of his glasses. He'd come to report to the Major privately, because Hochstetter was not known for receiving bad news graciously, and he didn't think the injured lieutenant was feeling up to watching this particular explosion of temper. The doctor worked primarily in the Gestapo headquarters and was more used to stitching prisoners back together than examining his own people. This evening's type of work demanded a level of empathy he was unused to feeling. "So I examined the young man and his injuries are extensive, but-"

"Cut the dramatics and tell me about his head," Hochstetter demanded. "When can you get his memory back?"

The doctor tapped his pen on his clipboard thoughtfully. "While your soldier does have a head wound, it's a fairly minor one. It probably bled quite a bit, which may have caused disorientation at the time, and likely even a period of unconsciousness. But he's not suffering a serious enough concussion to bring about amnesia."

"Are you telling me he's faking it?"

"No no." The doctor held up a placating hand. "The young man is definitely suffering memory loss. But it has a different source. Sometimes in order to survive a devastating trauma the mind will shut itself down and block out certain memories. In the case of a vehicular accident a person might forget just the accident itself. But if the trauma has far enough reaching implications, and the incident is coupled with physical trauma, the brain can block out everything."

"You're saying he doesn't remember anything on purpose?"

Nodding, the doctor replied. "I'm saying his subconscious made a decision to shut down because he couldn't handle the circumstances surrounding his attack."

An ugly sneer settled on Hochstetter's face. "So somebody threw a couple punches at that kid, and he had to wipe it from his memory?"

"He was almost strangled to death, Major. He's suffering deep tissue bruising and moderate lacerations consistent with a vicious beating. I'd be surprised if he can even recognise himself in the mirror with all the swelling around his throat and face. And the emotional impact of seeing the rest of his patrol killed would probably be enough of a shock to do anyone in."

"Fine," Hochstetter ground out. "When can you get his memory back?"

"It's not that simple, Major. The mind needs time to adjust and feel safe again. Some people never get their memories back. In a case like this I'd guess a familiar face or object will eventually jar his memories loose. But the mind will go to great lengths to protect itself from such trauma."

"So you can't fix him?" Hochstetter took on a challenging tone.

The doctor straightened up and tugged at the lapels of his lab coat. "Medicine is a science, Major, not magic. At this point I'd be more concerned about the young man's physical health. I don't think he's been eating or sleeping properly and you're going to run him into the grave if you're not careful."

"What if we get his papers? Will his name and file make his memories come back?

"Maybe. There's no guarantee."

Hochstetter growled under his breath. "Is it likely anyone out there has a solution for this? Some chemical or procedure? Something experimental?"

"It's just a matter of time, and actually caring for his health. Neither I nor anyone else can simply dig his memories out, Major." The doctor began to collect his file up, clearly done with the conversation.

Hochstetter returned to his desk as the doctor left, swearing under his breath. The bureau of information hadn't been particularly pleased when he requested information on all personnel transfers for the last two weeks.

Technically he should have done the paperwork for his anti-Underground patrol before sending them out for a trial run. Working out the dead men's identities by process of elimination was highly irregular and very frowned upon.

Hochstetter didn't need any more accusations of irregularity written up in his record. He had accumulated enough of those in his battle with that devious POW, Colonel Hogan. The last thing he needed was bad press over a small incident with an ordinary German lieutenant.

The bureau had promised him an identity for 'Otto' within the next few days.

Growling to himself, Major Hochstetter gathered up his coat and briefcase. It was time to head home for a good sleep. His list of potential traitors was spread out on his desktop, waiting for the next day, and it was essential that he was well rested and ready to tackle the interrogations with vicious enthusiasm.

The light was turned off behind him, and all thoughts of his amnesiac charge were left behind as well.

**0 0 0**

"R. Run, laufen, courir. S. Sky, himmel, ciel. T. Tired… müde... fatigué. U… mmm… Umbrella, regenschirm, parapluie. Uh… elemenopee, q, rstee, u, v. V!" Otto stopped to rub at his eyes, "What sort of bloody word starts with V?"

He was trying to stay awake, playing a word game as he shuffled along the sidewalk in the early hours of Thursday, tripping now and then when he couldn't quite get his body to keep speed with the world around him.

He was exhausted. Upon realising that Hochstetter had left Otto with nowhere to go, one of the office workers had taken pity on him and directed him to a cot in an empty holding room at the Gestapo HQ. He barely slept at all. His body was pumped with panic and adrenaline, and when his eyes slid shut of their own accord he was launched into a landscape of flames and nightmares. Otto didn't know much about his own body and its stamina. But he knew he couldn't take much more of this. When he cleaned up in the HQ washroom that morning, he was mesmerised by how dark the bruising around his eyes had gotten, and how much more hollow his cheeks looked.

It was only Thursday, his 3rd day of existence, memory wise, and yet he felt more tired and achy than an old man.

He was probably losing weight as well. He'd been given a food stamp and sent to a shop down the street for breakfast. But they needn't have bothered. He bought an apple, some sort of breaded egg roll and a strip of dried fish. The only thing he managed to keep down was the fish. He chewed it in small portions on his way back to the Gestapo HQ.

"V. Vaccine, vaccin, vakzine…"

"Excuse me."

Otto jerked his head up.

"Officer?" It was the tall, thin, postman from the day before, standing at the base of the steps up to the Gestapo HQ. "I don't want to interrupt you, but I stopped by to see if I could catch you before work this morning."

Otto instinctively drew the fingers of his right hand into the cuff of his sleeve. He had pocketed a knife from the restaurant the day before, and felt much more comfortable with the small blade hidden in his sleeve. It was shorter than the length of his forearm, and didn't impede his movements at all. "Me? You're waiting for me?"

The postman looked up and down the cobbled street. It was quite early, but already the shops and buildings lining the road were letting in and out the occasional visitor. "Can you walk with me? I need to talk with you about something. It won't take very long."

Otto glanced back at the Gestapo HQ. "Sure. I guess so."

Part of him was wary about trusting a recent acquaintance. But on the other hand, he had little else in his life at the moment. Who was he to trust except strangers?

He followed the young mailman as the other man began to angle away from the building at a brisk walk. Otto fell into step and within a couple of blocks they had lost the HQ behind a twist of cobbled roads.

"Did you manage to find Pieter?" Otto ventured.

The other man finally came to a stop, looking around carefully. "He still hasn't turned up. I wish there was something else we could do, but there's only so many places you can look for someone. We'll keep trying, though."

Otto nodded.

Thrusting up from the road on both sides were shops with dark doorways and shuttered windows, and Otto was quite aware that there was no one else around to hear their conversation. He leaned into a nearby bicycle stand post, carefully shifting so the barrier was between him and the taller man.

The German was agitated, but keeping it under close control. Otto thought that maybe he was afraid. If he hadn't been good at picking up on small details he wouldn't have noticed the beads of sweat around the other man's collar or the way he kept running his long thin fingers along the lining of his official Reichspost coat.

"I know this is abrupt, and I don't want to ask such a huge thing of you, but I thought maybe you might understand if I explained, and you could help and it would save a man's life."

Otto was stumbling to keep up with the rush of German. "What?"

"We don't know each other. I'm Vogt." He stuck his hand out abruptly.

Otto took another step back, pulling his own hand out of the postman's reach. Distrust wrinkled his brow. "Otto. You can call me Otto. What is it that you want?"

"It's about a man that's been arrested. Unjustly. I think. I mean, Herr Metzger, he's been so good to this town for decades and decades, donating his land for our hospital, starting that fund for school uniforms. He's devoted his life to helping other people. But the Gestapo arrested him yesterday. Apparently some saboteurs were using his barn. Even if he did know about it, he doesn't deserve to be executed for one slip up in his old age. He deserves respect for the years he's helped the people of this town and country."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Vogt took a deep breath before replying. "I know some people who can get him out of Germany."

"People who can get him out of Germany…" Even with the funny half-hooded slant of his eyes making him look sleepy and disarming, it was obvious from the tension in his stance that Otto was angry. He snapped out the next sentence with venom. "It was a lie, wasn't it? You weren't looking for some friend yesterday, were you? You're a spy of some kind. And you want me to help you. Are you crazy? Why would I do a thing like that? I've only known you for a dozen minutes combined, and you've already lied to me."

"It wasn't a lie! Well, it was mostly the truth. I needed to find out if Pieter was safe. He is like a brother to my friend. And I really am worried for him." Although he'd never met Peter Newkirk, Vogt felt a growing kinship to the missing soldier as the stressful days progressed. They'd all be glad when he was found. "You think I'm the enemy, but we both want the same thing for Germany, for our people. We want security, safety and prosperity for them. We just have two different ways we think Germany should arrive there. But it doesn't always have to be that way. Sometimes we can have a common purpose."

Otto glared at the taller man. "And my purpose is what? Helping you break a man out of Gestapo prison? Even if I didn't want him executed, why would I break the law for you? I have no reason to trust you."

Vogt looked up and down the street nervously. If he couldn't get this lieutenant to agree to help, he didn't dare let him report back to the gestapo. It was the postman's job to either shoot him, or force him to the submarine's meeting spot, where they would ship him off to a POW camp in England. It was messy and risky, but they'd decided the night before that rescuing Herr Metzger was worth it.

He stuffed a hand down into his coat pocket, and froze when his hands didn't close around cold metal.

"If you're looking for your gun, you're not going to find it." Otto said.

Vogt looked over at him, horrified.

"I checked your pockets while we were walking over. What were you going to do, shoot me?"

"No. Probably not. I just…"

"I'm the enemy!" Otto's green eyes flashed. "Why did you even approach me? You thought I was the sort of person to commit a crime without thought?"

"I thought you were the kind of person who cares about what happens to the people around you."

Otto was angry, and tired, and losing his temper. "Well that's why you and your idea are stupid. You think you know a person, but you don't. You don't know them at all. Did you know I cheat at cards? I only play when I know I'm going to win. I like holding all the cards… and the guns, I guess." He stared at Vogt plaintively. "It's true I don't want Herr Metzger to die. I feel horrible about that. But I can't break the law for him. I can't do that."

"I know it's illegal but I'm doing it because it's right. My conscience tells me I have to," Vogt said.

There was a very long silence while Otto dredged up every curse and invective he could recollect in every language he knew.

Then he shoved his hand into his inner jacket pocket and retrieved Vogt's gun. He held it out towards the other man.

"Fine. What do you need me to do?"

**0 0 0**

It was mid-afternoon when a beam of sunlight cut across LeBeau's face and woke him from a troubled sleep. He rolled into a sitting position and patted at the army cot underneath him with a fumbling hand, trying to remember exactly where he was.

Murmured voices outside brought him back to reality. He was sleeping in the backroom at Herr Wolfe's apartment. The tall thin postman, LeBeau thought his name might be Fot, or Vot or something, had been out that morning and met up with his man at the Gestapo HQ. Apparently the soldier was willing get Metzger out of the holding cell and help him get to the submarine pickup site.

The rest of them had visited a few more members of the Underground, trying to find someone who had seen Newkirk, or heard anything about what might have happened to him. Now they were back, and LeBeau had feigned exhaustion and asked if there was somewhere he could nap for a while.

LeBeau pulled a pocket watch from under his pillow. He'd only been sleeping for fifteen minutes. The alarm he'd set wouldn't go off for another five. It was Herr Wolfe's watch, and hopefully he wouldn't notice it was missing, along with the other item of his that LeBeau had stashed under the cot.

Rubbing a hand across his face, LeBeau got to his feet and quietly made his way to the bedroom door. It sounded like the others were in the kitchen, too far away to hear the soft noises he made as he tiptoed back to the cot and got down on his knees to drag out the long object from underneath.

It was a hunting rifle.

He pulled one of the blankets off the bed and wrapped the rifle in the middle so it looked like a bolt of cloth. He wasn't planning to walk the streets openly, so it probably wouldn't matter, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

In a couple hours Her Wolfe, Vogt and Astor would come to wake him up, and bring him back to the hospital. Then Doctor Rosenthal would phone Klink, and Schultz would come and pick him up, and he would pretend he had just recovered and had been terribly ill, and it would all be wrong because Newkirk was still missing, and who was going to find him LeBeau didn't?

So LeBeau wasn't going to the hospital.

No. He was going to hide until evening, and then shoot Major Hochstetter, and wring the truth out of him. Because if anyone knew where his friend was, it had to be that evil, horrible man.

He wouldn't kill the dirty _Bosch_. He was just going to incapacitate him, frighten him, and Make. Him. Give. Newkirk. Back.


	10. A Little Unhinged

**Chapter Ten:**

**A Little Unhinged**

"Come in Carter." Hogan looked up from his desk to see the face of his Sergeant peeking around the corner. "What is it?"

Carter made a little gulping sound, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish as he searched the floorboards intently for some inspirational phrasing. "Um. Well, Kinch is on the radio with Herr Wolfe right now. He, uh, called us, 'cause, he has something to say, and, mmm, there's like, a problem, and he, uh… he wanted us to know, um…"

Colonel Hogan rolled his eyes and turned around in his chair to face his inferior. "Spit it out Carter, before you choke on it."

"LeBeau's gone missing!" Carter blurted out.

The look on Hogan's face was enough to make him wish he had delayed the news a little longer.

"What do you mean 'LeBeau's gone missing'?"

Hogan jumped to his feet and pushed his way past Carter, storming through the barracks and slamming the palm of his hand into the trapdoor bunk like it was someone's nose. Hurrying after him, Carter continued to babble.

"They called us as soon as they noticed he was gone, Colonel, and it's so weird, 'cause we already found LeBeau, and what would he want to run off for when we already spent so much time looking for him, and gee, do you think he doesn't know how worried we-"

"Carter!"

"Sorry, sir."

Kinch was at the radio, his dark forehead crinkled, and his eyes pinched with concern. He gave Hogan a grimace as his commanding officer slid down the ladder into the tunnel and strode over to the radio.

"Vogt, Colonel."

Hogan took the proffered headset and picked up the mic. "Papa Bear here. What's this about LeBeau going missing?"

The voice on the other side of the radio sounded even less enthusiastic to pass on this news than Carter had been. _"He went out the back window sometime this afternoon. He said he was lying down for a nap, but instead he took Herr Wolfe's hunting rifle and took off. We don't know where he was heading."_

"LeBeau… I swear I could kill him right now." Colonel Hogan growled. "We're heading out to pick up Herr Metzger and help with his escape as soon as lights go out. I don't have time for another one of my men to go missing."

"He wasn't very pleased when you told him he had to come back to camp tonight," Kinch pointed out. "He's probably trying to find Newkirk on his own so you can't order him back to the hospital."

Hogan threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Is everyone forgetting that I want to find Newkirk, too? We can only keep up this charade with the quarantine for so long! Even Klink isn't that stupid."

"Well actually, there was that one time Klink thought-" Carter's interruption died off as Hogan and Kinch both turned to glare at him.

_"What do you want us to do, Papa Bear?"_ Vogt asked.

Taking his cap off, Hogan ran his fingers through his hair a couple times, wracking his brain for a solution before he replaced his hat and picked up the mic again. "There's nothing we can do right now. We have to proceed with the original plans. Kinch, you'll have to stay behind and man the radio just in case LeBeau comes back here. Carter and I will head to the docks to meet up with Herr Metzger and pass him on to the submarine. We'll swing by your place when we're finished, Vogt, if LeBeau hasn't shown up by then. Maybe we'll find some clues as to his whereabouts."

_"All right. We'll be waiting for you. You remember the signal I gave you?"_

"Yup. Three flashlight blinks means Herr Metzger is hiding in the trunk and it's safe to collect him. I just hope your inside man is trustworthy."

The voice on the other end of the line hesitated a moment before responding. _"He's a good man. I don't know him very well… but he's putting his life on the line for this. I think we can trust him."_

**0 0 0**

In a way, Herr Metzger was ready to die. He had lived a long life, accomplished much, and had faith he would be welcomed into a better place when he died. But it was unfortunate he couldn't have been more help before his death: there was information he wanted to pass on the Allies, and that poor English boy that was unwittingly dangling in Hochstetter's clutches. It was a shame to go with so much left to resolve.

The Major had been by in the afternoon to taunt him. He had a long list of suspected Underground members that he was visiting, dragging Corporal Newkirk along with him, and trying to incite some response in the Englander. Of course he had tried to get a reaction out of Metzger as well, hoping that dropping names in front of the prisoner would give him a better idea of who was and wasn't actually a traitor.

Metzger had almost hoped Hochstetter's list was a little more accurate. _Somebody_ had to notice Newkirk and get the news back to Papa Bear. Somebody who wasn't locked up and awaiting imminent execution.

But no such luck. It looked like he would go to his grave without knowing how this mess played out.

Something disturbed him from his reverie.

Metzger sat up on his cot so he could see through the grating on the door. Every two and a half minutes he could see the shadow the guard cast across the outer window to the hallway. Every half hour the guard would continue on into his cell hall and peek in the grating.

He had been awakened by a small gust of air across his face, as if the outer door had been silently opened and swept a change in air pressure across the room.

It was dead quiet, aside from the muffled echoing of the guard's footsteps out in the hallway. Metzger waited in the silence, wondering if he had been imagining things.

Then the door shivered.

It wobbled minutely, and then shifted slightly in the doorframe, settling into a lopsided position like one of the hinges had come undone. Metzger got to his feet and held his breath as he heard the guard pass by again. As soon as the footsteps began echoing away the door gave another shiver, and then swung outwards, rotating on the heavy lock instead of the hinges.

With a nearly silent huff of air, a man in German uniform slipped through the opening and then pulled the door shut behind him. He held it in place for a moment, ear cocked to one side before turning to Metzger and holding a finger over his lips.

Smiling, Metzger nodded. It was Corporal Newkirk! He was still dressed as a Nazi lieutenant, but maybe he had somehow regained his memory!

Newkirk beckoned him over to the door, and placed two hands on one side, indicating that he hold the door in place. Metzger could see the two hinge pins sticking out of his jacket pocket.

The Englander then crouched down in front of the lock and produced three hairpins from his collar. One he snapped in half, and dropped on the floor, the other two he inserted in the keyhole, taking a moment to really gouge at the metal first, so it was obvious the lock had been picked. They waited another minute for the guard to pass by in the other direction, and then there was a click, and with a turn of the handle, Newkirk had the door open.

He helped Metzger ease the door back into its proper place, and then stole quietly around the other side to slip the hinge pins back in place. Now it would look like door had only been opened from the inside, and Metzger had no help escaping.

They waited in the shadows for the guard to reach the end of the hall, swivel in the spot, and start slowly pacing back towards them. When he passed the ante-room to Metzger's cell once more, Newkirk reached out and grasped the older man's sleeve, pulling him quietly out into the hall, a couple of metres down, and through another doorway. One they were safely out of the guard's line of sight again, Newkirk tugged Metzger over to a light fixture, and placed a folded piece of paper in his hands. They were in a small side room where the guards could hang their outer coats, and the angle of the door protected them from anyone who might walk by, but Newkirk still pressed his finger to his lips again to remind him to keep silent.

Metzger nodded and unfolded the paper, holding it up to the light.

_There is a staff car ideling outside. Major Ochsteter is bothering everyone he thinks mite be working for the enamy. I moved around Major Ochseter's skedule so he taks us very close to the docks ware someone is coming to pick you up and tak you to safety. _

_ I will help you into the boot of the car, and wen we get to the docks I will tap litelee on the outside five times. Wen Ochsteter is busy I will signal the enamy, and they will come and let you out of the boot. You must stay compleetlee silent, because Ochsteter and I will be standing close by. I folded up my cote in the boot for you to use as a pillow. I hope you will not be too uncumfortibl. _

The letter was a mess of spelling errors, and Newkirk had written some of the words in English, apparently without realising it.

But it was mostly in German.

A language Newkirk would know it wasn't necessary to use anymore.

He wasn't back. His memory hadn't returned. He was still dangling in the clutches of an enemy who would sooner or later discover his real name.

"Newkirk," Metzger whispered. "I need to tell-"

The man in question whipped around to stare at him with wide eyes, clapping a hand over his mouth and jabbing at it violently.

Metzger looked over his shoulder at the door behind him, and nodded reluctantly.

Satisfied that the older man wasn't going to make any further noise, Newkirk pointed at the paper and lifted his upturned hands on either side of his shoulders in the sign of a question. Metzger smiled his approval, so Newkirk led him further into the room, down another empty corridor and up to an outside door.

When the fresh night air hit his face Metzger was surprised to realise it was already quite late at night. The moon was partially obscured by clouds and the night was very dark.

They were around back of the Gestapo HQ, where empty trash bins lined a narrow laneway leading out to the main road. Metzger could see the tail lights of a staff car idling only a few metres away. The crunch of glass underfoot had him pausing before he stepped down into the lane. Newkirk hurried ahead to the car, but Metzger stopped to look up at the unlit streetlamp above them. Someone had smashed the lightbulb.

He was once again grateful to have fallen in with Papa Bear, and his clever, well-trained men. The German resistance in the area benefitted so much from their genius and hard work.

Newkirk was back at his side, tugging him towards the car. It took a little bit of effort for Metzger to get his old bones comfortably folded into the trunk, but the wadded up coat helped, and there was another coat lining the back wall that the Englander had presumably appropriated from someone else.

Twenty minutes later Metzger heard the sandpaper growl of the Major's voice as he climbed into the front seat, and the staff car lurched into motion.

**0 0 0**

Otto had started out the drive in a state of tension, worried about the man hidden in the trunk of the car, worried about the risk he was running and the men that were waiting to whisk his smuggled passenger way to safety. But now he was just irritated.

Major Hochstetter was not a very nice person.

First of all, he was overtly reveling in their successful capture of Herr Metzger the day before, and seemed to have completely erased any of Otto's involvement from his mind and his report. Not that Otto wanted a pat on the back for his work, but it would be nice not to be ignored. He felt invisible enough as it was.

The second issue was the hatred that burned behind his words whenever he spoke about the work he did, and the people he was trying to defeat. Hochstetter didn't even try to pretend that they'd give the people they captured a fair trial. It wasn't as if they were defending themselves the enemy. They were the ones that had started the war. Because war was supposed to be a good thing. Sigmund had told him it was.

Suddenly the glory of war that Sigmund spoke of was a lot harder to accept.

He didn't want to be like Hochstetter. He didn't want to hate people just because they were different.

Otto thought of the man hidden in the trunk. Could he wear this uniform without giving in to the same attitude as his superior officer? It was sort of nice to be the feared, instead of the fearing. To be at the top of the food for once in his life.

But did that make it right?

"Here we are. Turn up ahead there." Hochstetter barked in his ear, shaking him from his thoughts.

Otto flinched, and pulled the staff car into the factory yard up ahead.

There was a small building off to the left side of the truck turnaround with the light still shining behind the window. But the rest of the factory yard was dark. Otto could just see the reflection of light off water somewhere in the distance, but even when the moon cleared the clouds for a couple moments the shadows of buildings and trees around kept most of the yard obscured. When they rounded the corner into the yard Otto spotted a ditch running the length of the property. Maybe that was where the man was waiting to help Herr Metzger away to the submarine. He would have to make sure Hochstetter kept his back to the ditch.

"Pull the car up to the building." Hochstetter ordered. "Our quarry is the night watchman. He should be on shift right now. Don't do that. Straighten out the vehicle."

Otto turned away to look out the window as he rolled his eyes. He had been trying to park the car with the trunk facing the ditch behind them, but Hochstetter insisted he park parallel to the building instead.

As soon as the staff car was in park Hochstetter jumped out and slammed the door behind him. Technically, Otto should have opened and closed it for him, but he'd quickly discovered that the Major had no patience for social or military niceties.

While his superior officer marched up the steps to the guardhouse Otto slowly slipped down from the driver's seat and strolled around the side of the car, stopping to tap softly on the lid of the trunk five times before he unlocked it. No point in giving the poor old man inside a heart attack by making him think he'd been discovered.

Gently lifting the latch, Otto made sure the trunk was open, but sitting almost closed, so it would take more than a casual viewing for someone to notice.

"Hurry up!" Hochstetter turned to him just as Otto stepped away from the car. He rapped on the door sharply. Otto hurried up the steps behind him, praying for all he was worth that this would work and he wasn't about to ruin his life just because he couldn't tamp down all those pathetic feelings of guilt and empathy.

**0 0 0**

Hogan crouched in the darkness of a ditch, just beside the turnaround in front of the fisheries factory. It was all closed up for the night, but their middleman ran the night shift, and was holed up in the little watchman's hut. Usually he'd be the one to take people out to the submarine, but tonight he was busy running interference with Hochstetter. Thank goodness Vogt's inside man had managed to rearrange Hochstetter schedule so their meeting happened after dark.

He ducked his head as the beams of a car's headlights swept across the yard. The black staff car rolled past, and Hogan could just make out the round scowling face of Major Hochstetter in the passenger window as it rounded the loop and stopped in front of the night guard's hut. Hochstetter jumped out immediately, but the other officer took a few moments to stroll along the outside of the car before he followed. It was too dark to see for sure, but Hogan was pretty sure he had stopped to fiddle with the trunk.

Now he just had to wait for the signal that the trunk was unlocked, and Hochstetter was properly occupied.

Not even a mile up that same road, LeBeau was hunkered down on a rooftop, also blessing the darkness that hid his nighttime activities from anyone that might be around. He shimmied forward on his stomach and peeked over the edge of the building. Hochstetter had to drive this stretch of road to get back to the Gestapo Headquarters. He would pass under the lamppost up ahead and then find that set of trashcans had rolled out onto the road. It was too narrow to pass, so he'd have to get out to move them, and voila, he'd be right in LeBeau's crosshairs.

He gently balanced the rifle on the brick beside him, and leaned over to check the chamber again. It was all ready to go.

"Hang on, Pierre. I am coming for you. You will not have to wait much longer. _Je promets_."


	11. A Shock in the Dark

_This chapter is an unedited mess, but my life is also unexpectedly messy right now, so it's the best I can do! If anyone notices problems with firearm use in this chapter, please let me know. Most books and websites about them assume (wrongly, in my case) at least a little knowledge to build on. _

**Chapter Eleven:**

**A Shock in the Dark**

Hogan had to hand it to Vogt. He had found good help at very short notice. The young lieutenant standing next to Hochstetter at the night watchman's door had been gradually shifting until he was blocking the porch light and casting a shadow across the back of Hochstetter's car. He seemed to be making a few abortive attempts to move their conversation into the little hut, but it hadn't worked so far.

"Come on," Hogan whispered. "Give me the signal. I need to know if the trunk is unlocked."

As if he had heard him, the young man on the porch pulled a flashlight from his pocket and began fiddling with it, tapping it against his leg and rolling it from hand to hand. Hochstetter turned to give him what was probably a reprimand, and the lieutenant contritely tucked his hands behind his back where Hogan could clearly see them. A couple seconds later the flashlight gave three quick blinks.

It was time to roll.

The dirt courtyard was no larger than the space between their barracks and Klink's office back at Stalag 13, but suddenly it seemed longer than a football field. Hogan readjusted his black woolen cap and wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants.

He double checked that Hochstetter was still busy talking to the watchman.

Then he slowly climbed out of the ditch.

The mumble of their voices carried across to him faintly. Hogan took a few cautious steps forward, relieved that there was no reaction from the three figures outlined in the porch light.

Hogan had to cross a beam of light before he could reach the long stretching shadow of the car.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

He was back in the dark.

"I don't care about your excellent work record!"

Hochstetter's voice sounded very loud now, making Hogan all the more aware of how very close and exposed he was.

"An enemy of the state escaped to England a few months ago, and the last place he was seen was this warehouse. What do you have to say about that?"

"I don't know, sir. Maybe he was going to steal a boat," the night watchman said. "But he wouldn't of got past me. You can talk to my superior, sir. I've got an excellent eye sight too. I don't let nobody past my-"

"Argh! I do not care!"

Otto kept close watch on Hochstetter's body language. You could often control the way a person moved by getting in their personal space bubble. Whenever the Major looked like he was going to shift so more of the car would be visible his peripheral vision Otto would lean towards him a bit and Hochstetter would back away without even noticing. Once he gave Otto a small frown, but he didn't clue into what was happening.

Hogan rushed forward till he had his back pressed flat against the car. He took another breath and crawled down towards the trunk. Reaching up a hand, he could feel the gap. The trunk was open.

"You could have never taken a sick day in your life and I still wouldn't care! I want to know everything you know about the confounded Underground resistance."

Hogan eased open the trunk and peered inside. Herr Metzger blinked up at him. The Colonel pressed one finger to his lips, and Metzger accepted a hand from Hogan and climbed out of the trunk with stiff movements and wobbly legs.

"Fine. We're done here."

"Major Hochstetter!" A young voice called out and Hogan shoved Metzger down behind the car, throwing himself after as the trunk of the car erupted into fully-lit view.

When Hogan pressed himself up against the car he could feel the vibrations as Major Hochstetter yanked the passenger door open. "This has been a waste of time. We're leaving."

Hogan scrambled to retrieve his pistol, wondering if Hochstetter could possibly miss them when the car pulled away and left them exposed. For that matter, he didn't particularly want Vogt's man to walk around the car and see them either. It was one thing to have him help them in a single case, it was another thing for an untried soldier to meet Papa Bear face to face.

"Hey!" Hochstetter gave a yelp of anger.

Somehow the young lieutenant had managed to trip himself down the porch steps so that when he reached out he took Hochstetter down to the ground with him. The night watchman hurried down the steps to help with the mess and calm the swearing Major, and Hogan took the opportunity to grab Metzger by the sleeve and dash across the courtyard.

He didn't stop until they were safely in the shadow of the ditch.

"I need to tell you-" Metzger plucked at Hogan's sleeve.

"Shhhh." Hogan hissed. He beckoned the German to follow him, planning to take full advantage of the continued distraction across the courtyard.

They managed to creep the length of the ditch to the boathouse on the edge of the yard before Metzger dug his feet in and insisted on stopping. He held up a finger for a moment's pause and then knelt down to feel about in the dirt.

Hogan glanced across the yard, noting that Hochstetter was back on his feet, hauling his subordinate around to the driver's side and shoving him into the seat before leaving to say another few words to the night's watchman. They had barely made it out of sight undiscovered. Thank goodness Vogt's man was a quick thinker.

He looked back down to see that Herr Metzger had scratched something into the dirt with a stick. It was too dark to read properly, but Hogan nodded, pointing first at his watch, and then tapping the flashlight on his belt. He would read the message when it was safe to use light.

He helped Metzger quietly tread the rest of the way through the dark boathouse and down the ladder where one of the night watchman's confederates was waiting to row Metzger out to the submarine. With luck, they would still make that night's tide.

Metzger shook his hand earnestly, and then Hogan melted back into the dark.

Colonel Hogan took his time creeping back to the ditch, and then knelt in the darkness, waiting till Hochstetter's car pulled away, and the taillights were completely out of sight. It was a close call, and his heart was still pounding a little faster than it ought to.

Finally all was quiet.

Hogan let out a deep breath and walked over to the spot where he and Metzger had crouched minutes before. He fished a flashlight from his pocket and used it to rove over the ground until he found the words that Metzger had carved into the dirt.

He wasn't prone to swearing, but Hogan let an expletive roll of his tongue.

Three words. Three words that maybe held the key to saving their friend, if only they made an ounce of sense.

_Otto is Newkirk._

**0 0 0**

The stumbling trick seemed to have done the job. There was no sign of Herr Metzger when Major Hochstetter dragged Otto around the end of the car. In fact the trunk was now fully closed, so Otto knew he had gotten away. He let Hochstetter shove him into the front seat, and then watched as the man stomped back up the porch steps.

The closed doors and windows of the car lent an artificial air of silence and loneliness to the moment.

Otto leaned forward until his head was resting in his hands on the dashboard.

"I'm just so tired," he said softly.

_Je sais. I know._

"I think I miss you."

_Bon. I would hope you miss me, my friend._

Otto gave a small broken-hearted smile. "I don't know if I can do this much longer."

_That I do not believe. You can out-stubborn any man I know._

"But I feel like I'm going crazy."

Otto could almost see the expressive hands flopping back and forth in the air with the reply.

_Crazy is a relative term. Anyone who isn't a little bit crazy is no fun at all. _

He gulped back a sob. "I can't do this anymore. I don't want to remember. I don't want to know what I've lost. I don't want to lose everything all over again."

On the verge of hyperventilating, Otto gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white as he fought to get his breathing back under control. Maybe he needed to just give up on the memories. Was it worth it trying to regain whatever life he had had? Hochstetter wanted him here. He could turn his back on whatever his old life had been and start something new - use his skills for the Third Reich. He'd shown himself to be valuable enough that they wouldn't care what his past was. If he came clean with Hochstetter about the weird parts of his appearance: the fake moustache and the padding in his jacket. If he told him about dreaming in English and his memories of a friend that spoke some other language –_French?_ Maybe Hochstetter would help. Maybe he would feel better.

The passenger door opened, and Hochstetter climbed in. He looked angry. But then, he usually looked angry.

"That was a colossal waste of my time. That man is a complete and total idiot! I can't believe one of our men reported him of suspicious activity. He's no more resistance material than… than you are!" He scowled at Otto. "Next time watch your feet before you break your neck falling down stairs somewhere. You're no use to me dead."

"Yes sir."

Hochstetter settled himself more firmly into his seat. "What are you waiting for? We're heading back to headquarters now. I need to pick up my briefcase before I head home."

Otto started the car and pulled out onto the road. He was glad to get some distance between them and whoever it was he'd helped.

A deeper frown pulled Hochstetter's brows together. "Where did you sleep last night?"

"Oh." Otto kept his eyes on the road. "On a cot, in one of the holding cells."

"Hm."

"If I had a way to get there, I think the Einsteins, the family that found me, I think they wouldn't mind putting me up for the night."

Hochstetter nodded, still frowning. "Fine. You can take this staff car. I need you to do an errand for me tomorrow morning on your way to headquarters. There should be a package arriving on the early train for me. It's the files finally coming in on all the soldiers who requested unit transfers. I told you we would figure out who you are by process of elimination: who asked to transfer units and didn't arrive for duty elsewhere. They've narrowed it down to four men and crossed referenced the names with the dog tags of the rest of your patrol-mates. So you should find a file with your name, picture, and all your life info in the package. Call me from the station as soon as you pick it up. The package should be on the eight o'clock train."

Otto concentrated on the dark road ahead of them, trying to ignore the moisture gathering in his eyes. "Yes, sir. Do I need any orders to show?"

"No. I already phoned the station to say you'd pick them up. What's that on the road?"

The car slowed as Otto peered out the front windshield, trying to see what had caught the car's lights. They were into the outskirts of Hammelburg now, although all the buildings on either side of the road were businesses, closed and empty for the night. It appeared that several empty garbage bins had been knocked into the road, and they were blocking their path.

"Why haven't those been cleared up?" Hochstetter grumbled. "We could have driven right into them."

Otto stopped the staff car and put it in park. The tall buildings on either side made him nervous. This would be a perfect place to stage an ambush of some sort. It was exactly the sort of place he, himself, would choose. "Major, I don't know if you should-"

But Hochstetter was already out of the car, barreling around the front to move the offending garbage bins.

Slowly, Otto opened the driver's door and climbed down. They had stopped almost exactly under the street lights, and the glare was making it difficult to see their surroundings. He shaded his eyes with one hand and looked across the hood of the car, up to the roofs of the buildings above Hochstetter. He searched for anything out of place. Was that a flash of light reflected of gunmetal?

**0 0 0**

When his elbows had gone numb LeBeau had given up position and started pacing the edge of the roof. There was no one to see him, and from his spot on the second story roof he could see far up the road.

He knew from Vogt that Hochstetter would take this route to and from the warehouse at the docks, but now he had begun to worry that there had been some mistake. Perhaps the rescue had been called off, or Vogt's inside man hadn't been able to change the Major's schedule so they would visit the docks after dark. Or maybe Hochstetter had Newkirk locked up back at the Gestapo Headquarters and was staying there to interrogate him instead. Maybe the _sadique _Bosch was hurting him right now. Maybe Newkirk had been tortured these last four days and he had been waiting the whole time for them to rescue him, for LeBeau to come and get him out, just as he had promised he would. Maybe Newkirk didn't even believe they were coming for him anymore…

A beam of light cut through the darkness ahead and severed LeBeau's careening string of thoughts. It was a car, not a truck. LeBeau scurried back to his rifle and dropped to his belly. Nobody who wasn't on official business was out at this time of night, so it was almost definitely Major Hochstetter.

He shuffled in place until he felt comfortable. It wasn't a skill he had used much for their operations, but LeBeau was a very good shot. He had a cousin who had been a big game hunter once. The old Mauser that Herr Wolfe had been using as a hunting rifle was familiar under his hands.

The car pulled up under the street lights and stopped. It was definitely a Gestapo staff car. The passenger door opened and a short, barrel-chested officer jumped out.

LeBeau cocked the rifle and gently eased the safety to the side with his thumb. He settled a little lower into position and stared down the sight. Down below the German officer had stopped at one of the garbage cans and was having difficulty dragging it off the road. LeBeau had purposefully filled one of them with water so it would be too heavy to move easily, and would afford him a couple minutes of a stationary target before Hochstetter figured out how to get off the lid and empty it.

He would aim for the thick flesh of Hochstetter's outer arm.

LeBeau shook his head to dislodge any thoughts of blood or gore. He was doing this for Newkirk. He had to do this to save his friend. It was Newkirk's last chance.

Hochstetter strained backwards as he pulled at the can and LeBeau could now see his face clearly down the site of the rifle.

It was definitely him.

He lined up the shot, squeezing with one finger to take up the slack on the trigger.

Everything was narrowing down to Hochstetter, and the small circle of visibility at the end of his site. He never even heard the car door open, or the younger man step down on the other side of the car. The streets had been empty before, and LeBeau wasn't watching for the keen green eyes that cut across the darkness and picked out the reflection of light off the barrel of his Mauser.

He drew in a deep breath, failing to see the flurry of dark uniform as the young officer skidded over the hood of the staff car and reached out to grab his superior officer. All LeBeau saw was a flash of brown instead of black as he pulled the trigger and then sat back in confusion, trying to figure out what had happened to his target.

Down below Hochstetter was still standing, knocked out of his gun-site as a different officer staggered in place, searching fruitlessly for a grip on reality before he dropped to the pavement in a limp pile.


	12. Woe is LeBeau: Peter's in Peril

_A special thanks to everyone who has left such lovely reviews over the past couple weeks! Your encouragement is much appreciated!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve:<strong>

**Woe is LeBeau: Peter's in Peril**

"Guards!" Hochstetter took one look at the body crumpled on the pavestones beside him and took off at a sprint for the corner of nearest building. There was plenty of time for LeBeau to reload and take another shot but he was in too much shock.

There was no movement from the man lying in the road, and from two floors up LeBeau couldn't even tell if he was breathing or not. He hadn't meant to hit anyone else. Only Hochstetter. And he certainly hadn't meant to kill anyone.

Hochstetter disappeared around the corner of the building and LeBeau set his rifle down, the tile roof biting into his palms as he leaned forward.

Maybe he should go down. Could he help in any way?

There.

The hands had begun to twitch, fisting, and then reaching out to scrabble at the ground.

Drawing back from the edge, LeBeau let out a shaky breath of relief.

He hadn't killed anyone.

At least… he hadn't killed anyone outright. But the soldier below could be badly injured. LeBeau pulled back the rifle bolt and jimmied it until the magazine and chamber emptied. He grabbed the empty and unused cartridges and stuffed them in his pocket. He had to get out of here. Even though the area was mostly vacant at night, Hochstetter was sure to come back with help soon.

If he did come back at all.

LeBeau hopped to his feet and peered down at the soldier below, chewing on his lip nervously. He should really climb down and check on the man. Hochstetter was a heartless pig, and couldn't be trusted to help his own kind, even if they were fellow Gestapo. Shouldering the rifle, LeBeau hurried across the roof towards the fire escape.

**0 0 0**

_It hurts. He's wrestling in the bruising grip of multiple hands. And he's terrified. More desperately terrified than he's ever been in his life. And all he can see is the twin headlights of a truck he has to stay away from and a door, a rough wooden door he just has to get back to. But they won't let him. They're hurting him. And he's screaming, one word over and over. A name?_

_ "Get the cuffs on him already!"_

_ A hand scrapes at his arm, trying to twist it behind him._

_ Then the smell of gasoline hits the air and it drives his panic off the scale._

_ "No! You can't do this! Stop! Please stop! Please…"_

_ The man hits him across the face. Hochstetter? No. Too tall. Blood spatters across his chin and he tears at the wall of uniform holding him in place. Someone hits him in the stomach and he reaches out, latching on to their other hand._

_ "Don't shoot him. I need him alive!"_

_ It's clutching a pistol. The hand. They're fighting and he has to get to the door. It's all that matters._

_ Bang!_

_ Then the gun goes off and someone else screams._

_ He falters. Just for a moment. But they knock him to the ground and he doesn't have time to move away when he sees the boot swinging towards his head._

Otto let out a short cry of pain as he jolted his way back to consciousness, his hands clawing at the pavement to find something to hold on to. His mind was blurry with pain and memories, the sound of a gunshot, real and remembered, echoing in his ears. His back felt warm and wet, and something was dribbling down his neck and collecting in drops on his chin. He had to blink half a dozen more time before the paving stones came into focus in front of his face.

"Help." The sound was quiet, and his voice cracked half way through.

Nobody responded. Otto rolled to the side, trying to pull his knees underneath him, but a slice of pain across his back and down his arm tore a whimper from his throat and stopped his movement. He took several deep breaths, trying to wade through the flames pouring across his back.

Time seemed to fade in and out as he focussed on the cold of the stone under his cheek and the warmth of the blood spreading across his uniform.

Finally he heard the rumble of an engine and new voices echoing through the area.

"That's the Major's staff car. Fan out and see if you can find him."

"What about the gunman?"

"Looks like this was long-range, but see if you see anyone around."

"Yes, sir."

"Do we have a first aid kit in the truck?"

When the first hand touched him he flinched. Somebody knelt close by and reached out to turn his face towards the street light.

"How's he doing? That's a fair amount of blood."

"It just looks like a lot. Hey there. Are you alright?"

Otto blinked against the light, picking out a collection of grey and black uniforms surrounding him and casting weird shadows against the pavement. "Nooo! Don't toushh me. Lemme go!"

He just wanted to crawl into a dark hole and disappear, escape from the hands that were pushing and prodding him, and the ugly harsh voices speaking in a language that was suddenly twice as hard to understand as it ought to be. He was tired. He just wanted to go home.

Someone looped their arms under his armpits and hefted him off the ground. The world whirled and dipped as he tried to get his feet on the ground. Otto let out a whimper as their grip on him tightened. He could feel unwanted tears welling up in his eyes, and when his back knocked against the soldier behind him Otto spun back into oblivion.

**0 0 0**

By the time LeBeau had climbed down the fire escape and run around the length of the block to reach the front of the building there were already soldiers responding to the shot. LeBeau had to pull back into the shadows when their truck passed. He peeked out of the closest alley to watch them climb out of the vehicle.

It was too late to help the man he had accidently shot. LeBeau ran his hand up and down the rifle barrel and looked around the corner one more time. Now what?

The most important thing was to get back to Herr Wolfe's apartment before someone caught him wandering around in the dark with a rifle.

It was probably past midnight now. Officially it was Friday, the day London had set as a deadline for them to find Newkirk. If they told Kommandant Klink that Newkirk had died in the hospital they would never be able to accept him back to Stalag 13. They'd have to ship him back to London to cover their operations.

It wasn't an acceptable outcome. Not for LeBeau.

He made it across town in record time, keeping to the shadows and avoiding patrols.

LeBeau rapped out the designated knock on Herr Wolfe's apartment door and then jiggled the doorknob, almost vibrating with impatience. When it finally swung inwards it was Herr Wolfe himself answering.

"Herr LeBeau! We didn't-"

The small Frenchman pushed his way past into the middle of the apartment. "Is Colonel Hogan here? I need to talk to him."

Carter was taking off his coat and hat in the sitting room. They had arrived just moments before. He dropped his hat at the sight of his smaller friend. "LeBeau! Where've you been? We were worried about you, pal."

Voices in the kitchen drew LeBeau further into the apartment. He found Hogan at the kitchen sink, wiping the black grease paint from his face as he spoke to Vogt and Astor, who were seated at the table.

"Colonel. I was trying to shoot Hochstetter, but-"

Hogan swung around to look at his recalcitrant Corporal. "Damnit, LeBeau! What the hell do you think you were doing?"

"Saving Newkirk!"

"That's what we're all trying to do."

"Well, it hasn't been working, has it?" LeBeau shouted.

Carter spoke softly from the kitchen doorway. "We just got back from the rescue mission, LeBeau. We couldn't leave that poor old man with the Gestapo."

Astor motioned for quiet. "You need to lower your voices. It's almost midnight."

Both Hogan and LeBeau took a deep breath, and LeBeau took a moment to rub at his face wearily, trying to find the energy to think rationally again. With a sigh Hogan slapped the rag he was holding down in the sink "Are we in any immediate danger, LeBeau? Is anyone following you right now?"

"No."

"Good. Then we'll talk about you in a minute." Hogan turned to the others, frowning. "Metzger left me some information. But I don't know what it means and it doesn't seem to follow any code that I can think of. He wrote down the phrase, 'Otto is Newkirk'."

Vogt visibly started, almost spilling his coffee before he set it down carefully on the table. "That can't be. Are you sure that is what he wrote?"

"You know what he meant?" Hogan asked.

"It's the name of that man: the one I asked to help us free Herr Metzger." Vogt shook his head in confusion. "But he's German. A Gestapo officer. His name is Otto, and he must have spoken to Metzger at some point, but…"

"But he's not Newkirk." LeBeau prompted

Vogt looked up at them. "Well, I've never met Newkirk. But I don't see how that could be Newkirk."

LeBeau pushed his hand about half a foot above his head. "He is _comme ça_ tall, with brown hair and his eyes are green."

"Blue." Carter objected.

"Green."

"I'm pretty sure they're blue," Carter said.

"And I'm pretty sure you are wrong," LeBeau shot at Carter. "But we dyed his hair black, and right now he has risers in his shoes and padding in his uniform. He is dressed as a Second Lieutenant. Maybe I could draw you a picture. Or a photo. We could find a photograph of him…"

"How could this Otto be Newkirk?" Astor asked. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Tell us more about him," said Hogan. "Tell us how you met him and everything else that you know."

Vogt looked a little bewildered. "It was on Wednesday, when I went in to check the prisoner records. This lieutenant stopped me because he said I was acting suspiciously. He did have black hair and light-coloured eyes. A bit of an accent too, I suppose, but I assumed he was from another region of Germany. I asked him if he was okay, because he looked sick, as if he had also been in a fight." Vogt raised his hand to touch the corner of his mouth. "He had a split lip and his face was sort of lopsided, swollen and bruised all over.

"He said I could call him Otto, didn't give me a last name. I thought he looked kind. I'm not sure why, but I felt he would understand, so I took a chance and told him I was just trying to find information about my friend's brother."

"Did you give him a name?" Hogan asked. "For the man you were trying to find?"

"I think… I think I said Pieter."

Hogan nodded. "Go on."

"Then he agreed to help me. The records were in a locked cabinet, so he did this interesting thing – he took a couple pens – unscrewed them," Vogt mimicked the movement in the air, "and it only took a couple seconds and he had opened the lock with them-"

"Newirk!" LeBeau clapped his hands, bouncing up on his feet. "It is him, Colonel! We must go get him! Where is he now?"

"With Hochstetter, I suppose," Vogt said. "He was driving the car with Herr Metzger in the trunk."

"_Non_!"

Hogan jumped forward to catch LeBeau as the blood drained from his face.

The little Frenchman wobbled on his feet. "The man that was driving with Hochstetter tonight; that was Newkirk? _Qu'est-ce j'ai fait?_ What have I done? _Nous l'avons cherché si longtemps, et maintenant je l'ai tué."_

Colonel helped him to a chair which Astor quickly vacated. "What's wrong, LeBeau?"

"I shot him,_ mon_ Colonel! I wanted to stop Hochstetter, to make the dirty Bosch talk, but then his driver pushed him out of the way and I hit him instead. I killed Newkirk!" LeBeau wailed.

"What!"

"You killed somebody?"

"_Ça c'est la fin de tout. Je suis celui qui est le pire, le plus horrible, dégoûtant, traître..._"

"LeBeau. LeBeau!" Hogan knelt down in front of shorter man, trying to grab hold of one of his hands, which were now flapping around wildly, but Louis was descending into full-blown hysterics, and wasn't speaking a word of English anymore. In situations like this Hogan's preferred remedy was to sic Newkirk on him, because they could match each other's tempers, curse for curse. But right now that wasn't an option.

Instead Hogan gripped him by the shoulders and tried to get his friend to look him in the eyes. "LeBeau, if Hochstetter knew who Newkirk was, he already would have acted. He wouldn't let him run loose around Hammelburg, calling himself Otto. So that means he doesn't recognise him. I came within a couple feet of him tonight and I didn't figure it out either. Any one of us could have hurt him without realising who he was. I need you to calm down and listen to me. Are you listening?"

LeBeau gulped wetly, and nodded.

"You said before that you were trying to shoot Hochstetter, not that you had killed someone. How exactly did you hit Newkirk?"

LeBeau took a couple more huffs of breath, and Carter brought him a glass of water before he launched into the story of his evening, with much more dramatization of things, a possible hyperbole than Hogan generally would have appreciated.

"If Newkirk was coming at Hochstetter from the side, there's a good chance you just hit him in the arm: maybe just grazed him, LeBeau. There's no point in panicking until we know for certain that we have something to panic about," Hogan said.

"Uh." Carter spoke into the pause that followed Hogan's pronouncement. He raised his hand cautiously like a schoolboy, a look of confusion on his face. "So why do we think Newkirk is this Otto guy? He's going all around pretending he's not himself, or something? Why would he want to hang out with Major Hochstetter instead of us?"

Hogan glanced at Vogt. "If that man really is Newkirk, then something has gone drastically wrong. Newkirk would have found his way back to us by now if he could… if he knew where to come home to. Maybe he's sick."

"I know!" Carter's eyes widened dramatically. "Hochstetter's drugged him with some sort of memory-erasing Nazi-making formula!"

Hogan rolled his eyes. "We already established Hochstetter doesn't know who he is. We would have met a firing squad days ago if that wasn't the case. Maybe it's something simpler. When the barn burnt down he could have suffered some kind of head injury, a memory problem of some kind. Vogt said he isn't looking that great."

"You mean he hasn't come back because he doesn't remember us?"

LeBeau jumped to his feet.

"If there is any possibility this is Newkirk we have to find him and get him back."

"Well of course we do," Carter put in.

Vogt nodded, "I would feel responsible if it turned out that this man really is Corporal Newkirk."

"Agreed." Hogan turned to Astor and Wolfe. "Okay. This is what we're going to do. I need one of you to get on the radio with Kinch. We're going to dredge up every bit of information we've heard about Hochstetter over the last week. If anyone anywhere in London or the Underground knows where or what his plans are I want to know about it. We've got to get between Newkirk and Hochstetter, and we've got to do it fast."

**0 0 0**

Sigmund Einstein had his room closest to the front of the house, so he was the first to awake when the headlights of two vehicles turned into their driveway. He stumbled out of bed and pulled a housecoat on over his pyjamas. When he made his way into the entrance way he was met by Niklas carrying a light. There was rarely any traffic on the road at night, so the sound had woken them all. Berta stood at the top of the stairs, clutching at her robe.

There was a rough knock at the door.

With a look over his shoulder at his father, Sigmund opened the front door. A private stood in the half-darkness, relatively well lit by the full moon above. He clicked his heels together respectfully.

"Excuse me, Herr, for disturbing you at this late hour. We come on an errand from Gestapo Major Hochstetter of the Hammelburg Gestapo."

Sigmund nodded and opened the door further. Niklas came to stand beside him, and Berta began to creep her way further down the stairs.

"That's quite alright, officer. What brings you here?"

The soldier gestured over his shoulder. "There was an attempt made on the Major's life today, and one of our men was injured protecting him. The Major told us to take him to get looked at, but he insisted we bring him here instead."

Behind him, the passenger door of the army truck had opened, and two soldiers slid out, one leaning heavily on the other.

"Otto!" Berta pushed her way past her cousin and ran down the porch steps, dressing gown flapping behind her.

She met him halfway across the yard.

He looked awful.

His jacket was missing and his shirt was just draped over his shoulders. A messy swathe of field bandages were wrapped up around one shoulder and down around his chest, but they seemed to be smeared with blood and something like grease. There were still dried rivulets of blood running down his neck and a few splatters on his bare torso. His eyes were red and swollen, and when he glanced up to give Berta a watery smile he looked ready to cry.

"Can I-?" She put a tentative hand on his shoulder and her own lip quivered for a moment.

Otto said nothing.

Moving slowly Berta wrapped her arms around him carefully and enveloped him in a hug.


	13. Great Expectations with a All-Over Twist

_Thanks again to all you lovely folks for your patience. I've just recently been diagnosed with Crohn's disease. Bleh. But despite life complications, here's the next chapter! (I wish I'd never made the plot this convoluted) For those of you with questions or concerns regarding the story or updates, I'd love to respond, but please remember that I can't if your PM settings are switched off._

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen:<strong>

**Great Expectations with an All-Over Twist**

They were back in the kitchen where Otto's world had started, only four days before. Berta was boiling some water on the stove while Sigmund fetched his First Aid kit. She glanced over her shoulder every couple seconds, concern pressing her fair features into a frown. Otto hadn't said a word yet.

They'd helped him into the kitchen and set him up leaning forwards over the back of a chair so his back was exposed. His right arm was hanging limply to the side. But he'd tucked his head into his other arm and was hiding his face against the table. Uncle Niklas was still out in the hallway, talking to the other soldiers.

"I've got it." Sigmund strode into the room and set a tin box and a small battle of alcohol on the table across from Otto. "Otto. I need to look at your injuries. They haven't been cleaned out yet, and I don't want them to get infected."

Otto gave his head a small shake, but was otherwise still.

"Hey." Sigmund tried to soften his voice, "I know it probably hurts, but we can't let them sit like this."

There was no response.

Sigmund turned to his cousin, giving her a beseeching look.

Berta came around the table and sat down across from him. "Otto. You've been shot." Her voice trembled a little as she spoke, "They said it isn't too bad, but… you weren't supposed to be shot at all. That shouldn't happen here. You're scaring me, Otto. We just want to help you. Can you let us see how bad it is?"

Tentatively Berta reached out and tugged at the hand that was hiding his face. He flinched at first, but then let her take it in her two smaller hands. Finally two blood-shot green eyes blinked back at her.

"Can you sit up a bit if I push the chair further in?" Sigmund asked quietly.

Otto nodded, but kept his jaw clenched tight while Sigmund helped him move.

"Some of these bandages are already drying to your shoulders and back. It's going to take me a bit of time to get them off with warm water."

Berta got a better grip on Otto's hand trying to distract him from the minor surgery Sigmund was performing on his back. "Tell me what happened. You were working with that Gestapo Major, weren't you? The angry one. Do you like working with him any better now?"

Otto glanced at the kitchen doorway. It sounded like Niklas and the soldiers had moved their conversation outdoors. "Not really." His throat felt dry and cracked. "He makes everything so confusing."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I just don't-" Moisture seemed to collect in his eyes, and he blinked hard. "I just don't understand anything anymore. I don't like him at all. He's so cruel and angry and I don't want to be like that. But if it's the right thing to do… but still doesn't feel like the right thing to do…"

Tugging his hand loose, Otto scrubbed at his eyes. "We arrested this old man and Major Hochstetter said they were going to shoot him, just because he had a radio. They weren't even going to have a trial! How can that be okay?"

Sigmund spoke over his shoulder. "We're at war, Otto. The rules have to be stricter in times like this. It sounds harsh, but-"

"You said war was a good thing!" Otto interrupted. "You said it was 'the ultimate form of human existence.'" His voice took on a lower timbre as he parroted back Sigmund's words in a voice that sounded surprisingly like the farmer. "'_War is about higher living. It's about all the aspects of a pure culture coming together to strive for greatness._' But what does it even matter if we're all so afraid? If-if war makes us do ugly things and hurt each other. Why? Why is it a good thing to so be scared and angry?"

Sigmund dropped a bloody cloth onto the table and dipped a new one into the heated water. "It's just because people resist what's better for them."

"But why?" Otto twisted in the chair so he could look up at Sigmund. The movement made tears finally break out down his face. "Why is this better? I want to live in a place where you don't have to hide things. You can have a radio and no-one will shoot you for it."

"It won't last forever," Berta said, frightened by the unnaturally white shade Otto's face was taking on. "It can't. We'll have peace eventually. Right, Sigmund?"

Otto was shaking now, blood loss and exhaustion taking its toll. "I've seen a map up in the Gestapo headquarters. We're not even fighting anywhere near Germany anymore! We're taking what isn't ours! How do you know this will ever end?"

"Hey." Sigmund tried to hold his left shoulder still. "Otto. I need you to calm down. You're making the bleeding worse."

Otto's head dipped a little and his next words had a slurred quality. "Why would they shoot me? Wh'are we shooting each other? I d-din't want to hurt anyb-body."

Berta jumped to her feet and reached across the table to prop him up. "It was an accident, Otto. They were trying hit the Gestapo, instead."

Now she was crying as well.

"Nobody l-likes the Gestapo."

Sigmund had finally peeled and cut the field dressing from Otto's back. The bullet had torn a shallow groove across the width of his upper back, lost velocity when it cut through the strap of the satchel he'd been wearing, and buried itself in the meat of his arm, just below the armpit. Thankfully, his arm hadn't been extended back very far at the time, so the bullet hadn't gone in very deep, and they'd already dug it out onsite. The biggest problem was the width of the wound, and the length of time he'd been bleeding from it.

He grabbed a tube of cream from the first aid kid and took a moment to just stare at the mess. Right in the middle of Otto's spine there was a bruise. It had been blotchy and red when he first saw it, but now it had deepened into the clear dark imprint of a boot.

Suddenly he wished his younger cousin didn't have to be a part of this. That he could lift off all these marks and put them somewhere she didn't have to see them.

"You shouldn't go back to him," Berta said fiercely. "You weren't working with the Gestapo before. You should go back to whatever posting you had before."

"Berta! Otto's doing important things right where he is."

"But he's putting himself in the line of fire with this Gestapo Major. Those resistance cells are always sabotaging their work and blowing things up! And I don't even mind. I hate them too!"

Sigmund dropped the needle he'd been threading. His blue eyes flashed and for once his imposing stature was actually frightening. "That's enough! Neither of you are old enough to really remember what they did to us in the Great War. You don't need to approve of everything our leaders do. You just need to accept that the Führer knows what he's doing, and it's better this way. Much better."

Dropping her eyes, Berta pulled back to the other side of the table.

When neither of them offered a response Sigmund picked up his needle and focussed his attention the grisly job of stitching up the wound in Otto's arm and carefully disinfecting and bandaging over the furrow across his back. The younger man didn't make more noise than a sharp gasp now and then, although Sigmund suspected it was because the Schnapps had finally kicked in, and he was close to passing out.

Niklas came in and explained that the soldiers had left a staff car for Otto to use in the morning. He was still expected to meet the train in the morning and collect Hochstetter's package.

Rinsing his hands off in the kitchen sink, Sigmund began to clean up the mess in the kitchen. "You can have my bed tonight, Otto. You need the rest and I want you to treat that back as well as you can."

"I can sleep in Sigmund's armchair, if you don't want to be alone," Berta offered hesitantly.

Otto glanced at her cousin, who shrugged in response.

"I'll go get another blanket, then," she said.

Sigmund collected up the last of the bloody detritus and started packing up his First Aid kit.

Otto wobbled to his feet and struggled to collect a coherent sentence around his thickening tongue. "I diln't- I didn't want to sound ungratesful, Sigmund."

He waited until the taller man turned around to meet his gaze.

"I juss, I'm all confused. And… and I don't want to die for the wrong reason"

Sigmund's naturally stern expression softened a little. "It's fine. You've been through a lot these last few days, and I don't blame you. I'm sure as soon as you find out who you really are, things will be a lot clearer. Everything will make sense."

Otto nodded. It was nearly impossible for him to keep his eyes open any longer, and Sigmund quickly tucked an arm under his un-injured one and started to help him towards the front bedroom.

He was almost boneless as Sigmund maneuvered him into the bed and folded the covers into place. Berta came in a few minutes later and sat down at the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard.

"Do you need my help locking up?"

Sigmund could see his cousin was almost as rung-out and exhausted as Otto, so he declined her help and left to turn out the stove, the lights and lock up the house for the night. By the time Sigmund returned they had both fallen asleep. Berta had tucked herself behind him, lying on top of the blanket with one arm draped over his stomach.

Sigmund wondered if she'd had to wait for Otto to fall asleep to get so close.

He grabbed another blanket from the cupboard and spread it over his younger cousin. Then he quietly settled down in the chair by his dresser.

Dawn was still hours away, but it felt like it was approaching much too fast. He wanted to see Otto off working with the Gestapo Major. He wanted to see the younger man succeed, to see him rise up in the ranks the way Sigmund would have, if it hadn't been for his stupid crippled leg. Otto was bright and quick on his feet, he was a survivor and could go so far.

But Sigmund could admit to himself, now that they were both asleep, and not demanding the answers to the universe from him, that he was a little worried.

The world of the Gestapo, the S.S. and the higher levels of the Third Reich could be brutal. He'd been involved in the Nazi party politics for years, and was sometimes still surprised at what people were willing to do when they had so much power.

Not that it wasn't all justified in the end.

But Otto was young and soft, and couldn't see past the individuals in front of him to the bigger picture. It was an endearing trait, and made Sigmund feel just the slightest bit guilty for strong-arming Otto around to his own way of thinking. The kid was lost and disoriented and really had no choice but to trust him.

It was a trust Sigmund was mostly, almost entirely, certain was well-placed.

Running a hand through his short blonde hair, Sigmund leaned further back into his chair and settled in to wait out the remainder of the night.

**0 0 0**

Otto woke to the smell of cooking and the ache of too many injuries and too much bone-deep pain. He let his eyes adjust to the light filtering through the window and took a few deep breaths before attempting to sit up.

Everything was stiff and everything hurt. But he felt calm in a way he hadn't the night before. Maybe it was just exhaustion.

He used the dresser to leverage himself to a standing position where he could slowly stretch out his sore muscles. He didn't even bother trying to move his right arm, though. Some things were just better left alone.

Sometime in the night Berta had ended up beside him on the bed. She was buried under a pile of covers and all Otto could see was the spill of white-blonde hair that ran from under the blankets across the pillows.

Sigmund had left a dress shirt for him folded on the chair by the window and somehow he managed to get into it without waking Berta. Buttoning it without bending his right arm past the elbow was enough to make him want to scream in frustration.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Sigmund and Niklas had already eaten and were out checking the animals, but Elizabeth served him more food than he'd eaten in several days, and actually sat down to watch and make sure he ate it all.

It did go a long way to making him feel a little more like a human being instead of a walking time bomb.

Berta came in before he was done eating. She looked particularly bleary eyed after the short night, but all Otto could do was poke intently at his boiled egg and try not to think about the fact that she'd been sleeping next to him all night. He was pretty sure his ears had just flushed as red as LeBe- Le… somebody's béret.

It was a strange feeling. Sometimes he felt like he was just on the verge of getting his confidence back, of being someone who could tease, who could hold his own opinion, who could actually say what he meant and wanted to say. But there was something in the way.

Like a language barrier. Something about who he was trying to be just didn't fit with who he really was.

"Good morning, Otto." Niklas greeted him as the two men came in the back door from the yard.

Sigmund greeted him as well, and insisted in checking his work from the night before. It was a struggle to get back out of the shirt and the edges of Otto's black hair were damp with sweat by the time Sigmund had unwrapped his bandages and then re-wrapped them.

"Well, there's no sign of infection so far," he announced.

The amateur veterinarian let the silence draw on for just a moment more than was comfortable, and then he offered Otto his hand.

Otto shook it.

"So I wish you luck with your new identity. You'll have to tell me how 'Otto' stood up next to your real name."

"Thanks." He turned to Berta, but she wasn't meeting his eyes. He looked down. She was staring at the rivulets of blood that had run down his torso and dried in the creases of his abdomen.

Before he could say anything she backed away and left the room.

Feeling his ears flush again Otto gratefully accepted a handshake from Niklas and a brisk hug from Elizabeth, who then insisted on helping him with his buttons and pressed a packed lunch into his hands. They all told him quite firmly they expected him to come back visit some time.

It wasn't till he'd left the house and strode the length of the driveway in the new morning air that he found Berta waiting for him, perched on a fence post beside the parked staff car.

She looked troubled.

"So you're going to pick up your papers now."

Otto tugged the cuffs of his sleeves into place. "Yeah. It should have my name, my address, birthdate…"

"Do you think all of your memories will come back then?"

"I guess so."

Berta reached out and poked him in the arm. "But you're not sure if that's a good thing."

He looked up, startled.

Blue eyes met green.

"No. I, I just… I keep having nightmares. I think I remember bits of things, and…"

"And what?" she prompted.

"Well the people that hurt me, it's all dark and messy and I could be wrong, but I think they were- I think they were my team. People from our army. Wearing the same uniform I am."

They both considered this for a moment. Berta didn't really have anything to say.

Otto straightened out the sleeves of shirt again.

"I should go."

Berta nodded and watched him gingerly climb into the front seat of the staff car, settling his arm so he wouldn't have to move his right shoulder any more than necessary.

He started the engine and she jumped off the fence to come up to the car window.

"Otto, you'll come back, right? It doesn't matter to me who you end up being. I want you to at least come back and tell me. No matter what. Even if you're nothing like who you thought you'd be or should be, or Sigmund thinks you should be. I don't care." She considered his face while he picked at the steering wheel. "You'll try your best, won't you?"

Otto gave her the most sincere smile he could muster. "I'll try my best."

"Okay."

She let go of the sill and stepped back, watching as he backed the car out onto the road, and then drove off in the direction of Hammelburg.

**0 0 0**

"Hey! Wait for me." Carter found himself standing alone on the emptying grounds in front of Barracks 2.

As soon as Kommandant Klink had released them from morning role call Kinch and Hogan had been heading back down to the radio at as inconspicuously close to a run as they could manage.

Carter ran after them and found LeBeau bouncing on his toes, already in German civilian dress and ready to go. They had given up on the idea of bringing him back 'cured of the measles' and hidden him in the tunnel overnight instead.

"_Allons! Dépêche-Toi._ Monsieur Wolfe and Vogt will be radioing us any minute. _Vite, vite!_"

He practically slid down the ladder and Carter followed at his heels.

"Is there anything, _mon Colonel_?"

Hogan was leaning over the radio where Kinch was seated. He held up one hand for silence. "Just a minute. Kinch's getting a message right now."

Kinchloe was nodding as he held the headphones in place with one hand, and copied down the dispatch with the other. He slammed down the headphones. "Okay. Got it. They've been ringing up their contacts all night, and we have news from a plant in the personnel department of the _Wehrmacht_ that Hochstetter sent in a request on Tuesday morning for the files of any local soldiers who transferred out of their old posting, but never showed up anywhere else."

"He's trying to figure out the identities of the soldiers who died at the barn." Hogan said.

Kinch agreed. "Apparently the Gestapo Captain that Newkirk and LeBeau were spying on put together a hand-picked team for Hochstetter without filling out the paper-work first."

"_Je l'ai eu. _If all the bodies were burned then they might think Newkirk is one of their men instead of ours. Remember Astor and I took the dog tags off the soldier Newkirk shot."

Carter let out a low whistle. "Wow. We really did do a good job on his costume. I told you the black hair and all the padding really made a difference."

"The point is that the paper-work is arriving today. Hochstetter's supposed to pick it up at the 8 o'clock train in Hammelburg. He's going to get the files for five dead soldiers, and none of them are going to be Newkirk."

Colonel Hogan tugged off his airman's cap and started wriggling out of his jacket. He caught the civilian coat that Kinch tossed him. "Well what are we waiting for? We need to get to that train station before Hochstetter opens that file!"

**0 0 0**

The train station was quite busy but Otto had no problem finding help when he drove up in the personal staff car of a Gestapo officer. A rather harried looking porter directed him to a section of the platform where they were unloading packages and bags of mail from the still steaming train.

He was immediately pointed in a different direction.

"You want the sealed envelope that came in for the Hammelburg Gestapo? I think they put it in the safe at the ticket window."

Otto thanked him and hurried to the ticket window.

The woman at the window handed over a thick manila envelope with a stamp across its front. "There's a room in the back with a telephone," she offered. "If you'd like a private place to read you can phone the Major right from there. He requested we put you in touch with him as soon as you had the information."

"Thank you, Ma'am." Otto gripped the envelope between sweaty palms and followed a hallway to the back of the station where an empty office sat waiting. He shut the door behind him and rushed over to the closest desk. Sliding a nimble finger under the seal he flipped the envelope on end and dumped the contents out on the desktop.

It was a collection of five stapled files and a couple loose leaf papers. Otto snatched up the top paper and scanned through the military talk until he found the part he was looking for.

"_We have cross referenced the dog tags of the deceased with all un-assigned units and provided you with the file of one Second Lieutenant Joseph Lutz Keitel who left his post in Kirchheim last week and has yet to reappear at any-_"

Otto dropped the paper to the side and picked up the files, shuffling through them as fast as he could. "Finck, Pohl, Gebhardt, Genzken, Keitel… Joseph Lutz Keitel."

He stared at the sheaf of papers in his hand. A name across the top of the page. A small photo on the left hand side.

This was him.

He was blonde.

…

This didn't look anything like him.

Hooded eyes squinting, Otto took a closer look at the photo. He could find no resemblance between himself and… himself.

It took way too long for the implications to settle in. Otto dropped into the nearest chair, feeling his hands start to shake as a queasy sort of shock set in.

He was no one again.

He wasn't Joseph Lutz Keitel.

He wasn't even Otto anymore because Otto had a vague past as a soldier set aside to work for Hochstetter. Otto had a potential future and he had nothing at all.

Nothing.

He looked down at the files on the table.

Part of him just wanted to tear them up and take off. To run somewhere, anywhere. Except he had nowhere to go, no real idea of what was out there, or if there was anything worth running to.

Hochstetter he knew. He could go back to Hochstetter. Show him the files and tell him about the fake moustache and the other languages and hope he could fix this in some way. He had so many resources available and could surely find somewhere or something for him.

What other options did he have?

He walked over to the telephone and started dialing.


	14. The Last Blank

_If you haven't read it yet, go check out Chapter Thirteen. It's a real chapter now, instead of an author's note!_

_And if your memory is anything like mine, then Chapter Five is the place to go for a quick reminder of what's going on here. Happy reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen:<strong>

**The Last Blank**

Colonel Hogan and Sergeant Carter held on for dear life as LeBeau whipped Herr Wolfe's borrowed car through the streets of Hammelburg at a dangerous speed. Carter was looking a little green around the gills and Hogan was afraid to say anything in case a momentary distraction caused LeBeau to leave the road entirely.

"_Et voilà!_" LeBeau exclaimed, seeing the train station appear around the upcoming corner. "What time is it? Have we beaten the train?"

Hogan steadied himself against the car door and glanced down at his watch. "Eight fifteen. But he might not have gotten here at exactly eight."

LeBeau leaned out the driver's window as they approached the station. "Where do I park? _Zut!_ There is no space."

"There's always space at the Hofbrau down the next block," Carter offered.

Tugging his hat into position, Hogan grabbed at the door handle. "Slow down LeBeau. I'll jump out here and you guys catch up as soon as you find a place to park."

He was out the door as soon as they had drawn even with the station, but paused for a moment before letting the other two heroes leave. "LeBeau?"

The diminutive driver leaned forward to see past Carter. "What?"

"Park at the Hofbrau. In a real parking space. A legal one. No leaving the car in middle of the road and coming after me. The last thing we need at this point is a parking ticket."

"Fine fine!" LeBeau let out a violent huff of air. "Now go!"

"Go, please." Carter added. But Hogan was already out of hearing range.

The American Colonel skidded to a halt in the middle of the station platform, whirling around to look for any sign of Major Hochstetter. Not that he knew exactly what he'd do when he found him. Punch him in the face?

There were a number of men in uniform scattered around the train, but none of them were wearing Gestapo black. Taking a deep breath Hogan directed himself to the ticket booth.

It was a young woman behind the desk, and he gave her his warmest I'm-friendly-you-can-trust-me smile. "Excuse me, ma'am. I was hoping you could help me with something."

She returned the smile automatically and nodded.

"My employer forgot his briefcase at home this morning, and the cook sent me out to get it back to him. She thought he'd said he was meeting the train here. Have you seen a Gestapo Major Hochstetter around? I was hoping to catch him before he heads off somewhere else."

"Oh! He sent someone else to pick up his mail for him." She pointed in the direction of a doorway at the back of the building. "I'm pretty sure the other man's still here. Maybe he could pass on the briefcase to Major Hochstetter for you. He was going to use the phone in the back room to call the Major, actually."

Hogan's heart leapt into his throat and he had to physically restrain himself from jumping into the air and shouting 'Hooray!'.

"Thanks so much. I'll go get this to him then."

He barely managed to keep his pace to a walk as he crossed the platform and broke into a run as soon as he hit the hallway. There were two open doors showing him glimpses of filing rooms, but the door at the end of the hall was shut.

Yanking open the last door he slid to stop in the middle of the room, taking in the files spread across the desk and the man at the phone on the other side.

At the sound of Hogan's entrance the man turned around, phone receiver dangling from one hand.

"Newkirk!"

The blood drained from Newkirk's face as he stared at Hogan with eyes as wide as an ocean and slowly dropped the receiver.

**0 0 0**

The memory came back with the force of a freight train.

He was in the barn, on Monday night…

**0 0 0**

"I was going to try and take you all alive, but I think the Gestapo only need one of you swine to get all the information they need, and who better than our interesting imposter here?"

Gestapo Captain Finck was hauling Newkirk around by the arm like a piece of meat, but the Englander didn't even protest, too shocked to fight back. They'd been on the cusp of winning the gunfight only moments before.

He caught a glimpse of LeBeau crouched down behind a crate on the other side of the barn. The sight of his friend's furious scowl was enough to help him find his tongue.

"It's not really necessary, mate." He choked out. "I'm not that good with details. Couldn't give you much information anyways."

Finck gave him a hard shove, and Newkirk stumbled into the arms of Finck's three remaining thugs. One of them gripped him roughly by the biceps as he twisted in place to look back at the Gestapo Captain.

With a cold smile Finck waved a hand at his men. "Take him out to the truck. These two must be almost out of ammunition. Kill them, and then meet me outside."

Newkirk threw himself forward with all his might, thrashing and fighting to break free as the two other thugs opened fire on the crates where LeBeau and Astor were hiding.

"No! Stop!" he screamed, losing any semblance of calm.

He slammed his head backwards, bouncing off his captor's chin, and then lifted both feet off the floor, kicking out and trying to wriggle free from the larger man. Finck managed to get a grip on Newkirk's collar, but he sunk his teeth into the man's hand in revenge.

"Quit struggling!"

The noise of bullets tearing apart LeBeau's crate was driving him to absolute desperation. Newkirk knew he probably wasn't even making sense anymore, screaming like a banshee and striking out with every bit of movement he could manage. The second thug dropped his gun and flung himself on Newkirk's feet, pining them together so he couldn't kick anymore. Newkirk bucked his hips, managing to twist to the side so the biggest soldier lost his grip on the Englander's arms.

Newkirk hit the ground hard, his shoulder and face slammed into the dirt and making his vision blur.

Thug One bent down to grab him by the hair and Newkirk rolled in his grasp, throwing all his weight against the inside of the other man's over-extended arm.

The sound of the bone snapping was audible and the shooting stopped.

"Argh! He broke my arm!"

All Newkirk could see was the shattered crate on the other side of the barn. He needed to get to LeBeau. It was just hands trying to keep him back, arms locked around his chest holding him in place, someone yanking at his collar so hard he could barely breathe. Everything had funnelled into what was keeping him from his friend. The world was the crate and the fight to get there.

He wasn't even consciously thinking anymore when his knee caught Finck in the stomach and the Captain jumped back. "Fine! Forget those two. We'll torch the place and they'll go up with it."

Newkirk's throat was raspy from strain but he practically shrieked with horror. "No! You can't do that! LeBeau! Louis, you have to shoot them! You have to get away!"

There was a scramble of movement behind the broken crate, and Newkirk heard his friend's voice rise over the noise.

"Hold on, Pierre! We will come get you!"

He strained to look back as they dragged him towards the barn door. He couldn't see LeBeau. He couldn't get to LeBeau.

Gestapo Captain Finck just laughed as they pushed their way into the outside air. "Auf Wiedersehen."

The sound of the door slamming shut was like a death knell.

Newkirk's heart was going a million miles a minute and the cold night air was like an icy slap against his sweaty skin. The world sounded like it wasn't coming in at full-volume and he was having a hard time taking in a full breath.

Finck and his two un-injured men were dragging him further from the barn, bruising him and leaving scratches across all exposed skin as they struggled to keep him under control. Newkirk barely even noticed the pain. All he could afford to acknowledge was the army truck they were trying to drag him to, and the barn door he had to get back to.

It wasn't until Finck kicked him in the side and he accidently bit his tongue that he realised he'd been screaming LeBeau's name over and over. He barely even had a voice any more.

"Get the cuffs on him already!"

They have him down on the ground now and someone is standing on his hand while they try and get the other one locked in place.

The smell of gasoline hits the air and Newkirk literally feels his heart skip a beat. "No! You can't do this! Stop! Please stop! Please…"

Someone hits him in the face so hard he can't see straight. There's hot blood all down his face and he can't do anything except tear at the uniforms hemming him in.

He lurches to his feet, only to be knocked back by a fist in the gut.

"Don't shoot him. I need him alive!"

There's something hard in the hand he latches onto and he fights to turn it on his enemy even though he's not even sure where he is anymore.

Bang!

Now someone else lets out a cry of pain, and for a moment he falters.

It's all the time they need to knock him to the ground and kick him in the head.

**0 0 0**

Newkirk came back to consciousness slowly. He was so cold and stiff he could barely move. He was lying in the dirt with his hands cuffed tightly behind his back and his feet shackled together at the ankles. Strings of congealing blood were pooling under his face and slowly running away into the grass.

It took a couple tries for him to peel his eyes open. But when he did there was nothing to see. They had dumped him on the ground behind the truck and left the tailgate hanging open.

With a miserable groan Newkirk rolled into a sitting position. His head was pulsing with the force of a pneumatic drill and he couldn't get his fingers to properly obey him when he tried to fiddle with the cuffs behind his back. It was tortuous work sliding the picks from the edge of his sleeve and holding them in place long enough to get the cuffs to snap free. He took a deep breath and rubbed the bleeding welts around his wrists before attacking the heavier shackles on his feet.

When they dropped to the dirt he used the wall of the truck to wobble into a standing position. There was light from the other side of truck and a weird rushing sort of noise that began to draw his attention.

He could hear Finck cursing and shouting something in German.

Newkirk limped around the back of the truck and came to a stop bathed in the light of orange and red hell.

The barn was engulfed in flame.

It was totally consumed in roaring, crackling tongues of fire that licked the walls of the wooden structure from the ground all the way up to the peak of the roof.

Already the beams of the walls were curling and collapsing inward and sending up shooting explosions of sparks.

Patches of dry grass and timber littered the clearing with more fires, like a smoking labyrinth encircling the barn.

Newkirk could see one human through the smoke. A soldier trapped between the barn and a particularly treacherous patch of grass. He was clutching a gasoline can to his chest.

Finck was waving his arms back and forth and yelling at him from a safe distance.

Hypnotically slowly they watched a length of the barn wall peel away from the building and crash to the ground in a rush of sparks. The soldier disappeared beneath the red and black shadows.

Newkirk broke into a run.

"Louis!" His voice was little more than a choked sob, and Newkirk realised there were tears pouring down his face.

He made it halfway across the clearing before Finck noticed him and threw himself in Newkirk's path. The Englander hit at him ineffectively, unable to tear his eyes away from the fire.

"He's in there. I have to get to him!"

"You got out of the handcuffs?" Finck gripped Newkirk's two wrists together and shook the man violently, shouting right in his face. "You're a demon, that's what you are! Your friend killed Lieutenant Keitel in the barn, you shot Pohl in the neck and now Genzken is dead too! You're just a bunch of filthy foreign #*$ and you've left me with just one man. You're a bad luck charm and I'm better off killing you right now."

Newkirk swayed with dizziness, but still tried to get past him. "Please! Louis is in there. Just let me go."

"Your friend is dead. You can join him in a minute when I slit your throat." Finke fumbled with his belt before drawing a black handled hunting knife from its sheath.

Newkirk used his momentary distraction to twist loose and threw himself into the growing smoke that surrounded the barn. He tried to weave his way through the flaming maze but could barely tell what direction he was stumbling in.

Bang!

A bullet whizzed past his head, and Newkirk dropped into a crouch, turning to see Finck's last henchman framed in the smoke behind him.

"Did you get him?" Finck called out.

"I'm not sure."

His eyes were watering like crazy, but Newkirk used trembling fingers to thumb the safety off the other item he had acquired when Finck was momentarily distracted. The man probably hadn't even noticed his gun was gone.

A smoldering timber beside him sent up a fountain of sparks, and Newkirk had to jump to the side to avoid it.

"Gotcha."

The only reason the next bullet didn't hit him was because Newkirk was in the process of turning to face his attacker. He straightened up and fired back.

He must have hit something, because Finck's man tumbled backwards over another pile of burning debris. Newkirk waited a moment, but there were no more shots.

He wiped his sleeve across his face, trying to figure out if he was still facing the barn. He couldn't breathe and everything was a smoky mess of grey, black and red. Newkirk dropped the gun and pressed both hands to face, one covering his mouth and nose, and the other shadowing his eyes.

He staggered onward as fast as he could manage.

And then a drift of smoke moved from his path and he could see ahead. The clearing. The truck.

Finck.

He'd been moving in the wrong direction.

Captain Finck was also shadowing his eyes, staring into the inferno he'd created. "You!"

Newkirk balked, and then took a hesitant step backwards.

But he was too slow, and Finck was on him in a moment. He grabbed Newkirk by the lapels of his jacket and threw him back towards the truck.

Newkirk failed to keep his feet under him and landed on his butt.

"I hate you!" Finck stalked towards him.

The Englander scrambled backwards, too tired and bone-weary to get back on his feet.

"You've ruined everything!"

Finck tried to slam his boot down hard on Newkirk's ankle, but the downed man was too fast and kicked him the shins instead. With a snarl the Gestapo officer dropped to his knees and put the full force of his weight behind his elbow and into Newkirk's solar plexus.

Newkirk saw stars.

The world whited out and then swung back into view a couple times before he realised he wasn't breathing any more.

He couldn't breathe.

Newkirk tore his watering eyes open to see Finck straddling his chest, pressing both hands so tight around his throat he couldn't draw breath.

"Hck."

He reached up one hand to claw at Finck's face, but the Captain only let go for a second to slap it away. Then he twisted his fist around Newkirk's dog tags and pulled them taut so the Englander could feel the metal cutting into the back of his neck at the same time that Finck pressed down on his throat from the other direction.

"I hate you. I hate your people. And your country, and your filthy impure blood…"

He couldn't see anything anymore. It was all going grey.

Finck's words were fading behind the volume of his own blood pounding in his ears.

Newkirk pulled together his last coherent thoughts and threw all his energy into one physical effort. His free hand reached out to the place where Finck just maybe, please God please, might have resheathed his knife.

He'd grown up in the back streets of Stepney, London. He'd witnessed two murders before the age of ten. He'd never ever held the knife himself, but he knew how it was done.

He drove the knife home.

**0 0 0**

He lay on his back for a long time after that, just letting the chain and the fabric around his neck naturally loosen and fall away from their strangled grip.

When he could lift his head without passing out he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his knees.

Across the clearing the barn was gone.

Flames still licked across sections of the grass and set off occasional bursts of sparks, but the building was gone, collapsed into a burning pile of rubble and broken beams.

He watched it until the picture was burned into the back of his retinas and he couldn't even remember what he was looking at anymore.

He might have stayed there forever if a soft metallic clink hadn't drawn his attention to the dirt at his knees. The chain had slipped from his neck and dropped to the dirt. He considered it for a moment, but left it where it had fallen.

In the East the sky was beginning to lighten.

So he pulled himself to his feet and started walking.


End file.
